


Commonwealth Trail Mix

by chaya



Series: Rare Commonwealth Recipes [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Genderplay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Roleplay, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaya/pseuds/chaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Blueberry Parfait. Deacon's relationship with Charmer continues to develop. Other relationships unexpectedly develop. Curie's cheese refinement continues. (NOTE: This story has been put out to pasture, but there are some scraps with good marbled fat on them at the end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Charmer trails him on his circuit for a few meters, staying quiet, and Deacon indulges it for a while before stopping and letting her catch up.

"I'll sneak up on you one day," she promises.

"You're closer to it than when I met you." Feeling more relaxed than usual, he drops his left hand to his side in a silent invitation. Surprised and pleased, she twines his fingers with his. They walk together.

"Swing," Charmer says, after they pass the campfire. "Not what a kid sits on, not what married couples do when they get bored."

Deacon smirks. "It's a dance,"  he says smugly. She makes an impressed noise. "I can, you know."

She almost stops. "What?"

 _Yes_. "Daisy taught me a few faces back. Those pre-war ghouls have some really slick moves."

Charmer's expression is incredulous and pleased. "I had no idea that hadn't died out."

"Been waiting for a partner?"

"I never learned." She grins as she leans right, bumping her shoulder into his. "But you could teach me sometime."

Deacon shrugs nonchalantly, taking on the gruff voice of the bodyguard cover. "Lessons cost extra."

She looks at him slyly. "I can afford you."

He puts a hand to his chest. " _Ma'am_."

**

A few hours after Nick returns from Diamond City, MacCready comes back with his son.

Duncan is an intensely quiet kid, very young, able to say several words but unwilling to utter them without the most clear and dire of circumstances presenting themselves. He spends the first few hours clutching MacCready's jacket as they walk together, touring the settlement and greeting the settlers one by one, and it's not until he spots Nick that he gives any particular reaction.

"Yeah, he's a good synth," MacCready says, smiling down at the incredulous expression Duncan is making at him. "He talks and thinks like a person. He's our friend."

Duncan stares at his father a few moments longer before looking back at Nick, who seems to be hanging back now that he's the subject of such intense observation. Hiding his metal hand in his pocket, Nick waves, and after a few minutes, Duncan inches back behind MacCready again.

"He's not big into waving yet," MacCready calls.

"No problem," Nick says, and wanders off in the other direction. MacCready sighs, smiling a little, and starts nudging Duncan toward the dog houses.

**

Charmer calls for a small meeting that night. Nick shows up and slouches against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes a glowing yellow in the dim light. "The deal's made, as soon as she gets the caps. Everything's ready to go."

"Good." Charmer looks to Preston. "I need you and at least two of your men."

"We're ready at your command," Preston assures her.

"That's what I like to hear." She stands, pulling her keyring out of her pocket as she goes down the hallway to unlock the armory and pull out two items: gamma guns. Deacon trails after her, holding one so she has a free hand to lock back up. When Charmer places her gun down on the table in front of Preston, Deacon does too. "Sell these."

"Ye- what?"

"To Arturo," Charmer clarifies. "He knows you're with me and he'll give you a fair price." She fiddles with her key ring until she separates one from the others. "Tie some string around this. It goes to Home Base. Get the box under the bed, it's full of about two thousand caps. Add the gun money to that and you should have enough to give the mayor's assistant Geneva to buy Crocker's house."

"Wait, wait." Preston squints. "What happened to Crocker?"

"He died," Deacon says helpfully.

Preston looks between Deacon and Charmer.

"He accidentally killed someone during surgery and shot himself to escape the consequences," Charmer elaborates.

"Ah." Preston takes a breath. "So, sold guns, money under the bed, goes to the mayor's assistant to buy the house. Right." It's clear that this still isn't striking him as his kind of work, but Garvey's too polite to say so. "Is that all?"

"Nearly." Charmer smiles. "Nick's boxed up everything in Home Base for me already. I need your boys to carry it over to Crocker's place for me."

"So we're... real estate agents and movers," Preston summarizes hesitantly.

"Then Home Base will be empty. So then you fill it with beds, and whatever else the Minutemen will need to have a successful location in Diamond City."

"Oh," Preston says, then blinks. "Wait, what?"

"Home Base is roomy," Charmer explains. "Lots of room for cots. A third-level hatch to keep an eye on things. It's a much better spot for your purposes than Crocker's house."

"Jane, I-"

"Your group became famous saving that city from super mutants. Your group belongs there again."

She looks at him calmly. Preston gestures helplessly and then turns to Deacon for help. "Aren't buildings there really expensive?"

Deacon shrugs. "What can you do? The rental options are abysmal, the stock market's in flux, location, location, location..."

"Someone, please, make sense." Preston checks the room desperately. "Jane, are you sure?"

"Yes." She crosses her arms. "Kellogg's old house makes three properties in the city. You could make excellent use of this one. Plus, you've said yourself that you have recruits coming in from places like Quincy; no idea how to navigate wide open spaces. Put them in the city, where their knowledge will go to good use."

Slowly, Preston's expression breaks into a cautious smile. "Deacon won't punch me if I hug you, right?"

Deacon shrugs. "Honestly, Jane's the punchy one. Clear it with her."

**

Charmer is playful that night. She pulls him close, peppering him with kisses down his jawline, his shoulder, as she reaches into his jeans and strokes him.

"Fuck," Deacon grits out, palming her ass and bucking into her touch when she starts to squeeze. "You feel so amazing. Are you always into - ah - quickies like this? Am I ever going to get to strip you down and -  _oh, ohh_." Deacon throws his head back and concentrates on lasting. "That's cheating."

She continues to use her fingertips to smear his precome over the head of his cock in firm strokes. "You might as well keep talking," she says lightly.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because you won't be able to get a word in when I push you on your back and sit on your face."

Deacon groans.

**

Deacon wakes up to three short knocks on the door. Scowling, he curls tighter around Charmer, but she's already moving and beginning to nudge him out of bed.

"Not yet," Deacon mumbles into her hair.

"Go answer it."

"Why me?"

"You only need to put on pants."

That's blatant sexism. Deacon huffs his displeasure against the back of her neck as he pushes himself up, fishing around for his jeans at the foot of the bed and not bothering to button them. The sunlight coming in through the curtains hints that it's a little past breakfast time, but this is still the worst. He grabs his sunglasses from the end table and inches the front door open.

It's Hancock, with two bags of guns. He looks surprised to see Deacon, or at least, surprised to see Deacon in such a state of undress. Deacon is too tired to react in any way other than squinting.

"Sorry," Hancock says, stepping back a little. "Um, I came over to talk to Jane?"

Deacon leans out of Hancock's view to look at Charmer, who's now stretched over the whole bed. The bare line of her back is exposed between quilts, but it's not like it's anything she hasn't let Hancock see before. "Company," Deacon declares sweetly, opening the door enough for Hancock to slip in. He shuts it before the whole settlement gets a free look-see.

"Mmm," Charmer responds, but seems to realize pretty quickly that considering the circumstances, there's only one person it could be. She rolls onto her side and blinks tiredly at Hancock. "Hi. Those for me?"

Hancock looks awkward. Between the nakedness and the state of Charmer's hair, there's no question what happened last night. "Yeah," Hancock confirms after a long pause, and starts to ease the straps off his shoulders. "It's all of Strong's stuff... MacCready's still got, um, he's still got,"

"The stuff to sell off?" Deacon finishes for him.

"Yeah. Those." Hancock nods several times.

Hancock's the only person in Sanctuary that's known that Deacon and Charmer haven't been fucking. And now, for the first time, it's pretty clear that that has changed. Deacon watches him as he kneels down to unzip the first bag, pulling out the boxes of ammunition and stacking them before pulling out a few pipe pistols. He's trying to keep his eyes down and not on Charmer.

Maybe he thinks he's just been replaced, Deacon thinks, and feels a stab of pity. He wonders how to telegraph the problem to Charmer, but as he glances up, he sees her slipping out of bed, not bothering to cover herself as she watches him unpack each item. She points to some to put away and sell after all, and when they're done, she moves forward and kisses Hancock's cheek.

"Thank you for taking care of this." She's being extra sweet to him, and Deacon knows it's because she's caught on too. "Come to bed, I'm getting cold."

Hancock's black eyes flicker to Deacon, then to her again. "You sure?"

She hums and retreats back under the covers, reaching out for him to follow.

Deacon watches, and finds that he feels fine with this. He retreats to the bathroom, washing up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and comes back to the living room to pull on his boots and grab a shirt. Charmer, who's wrapped around Hancock under the sheets and is barely visible in all the folds and lumps, looks a little disappointed that Deacon's leaving. He winks at her -  _take your time calming him down_ \- and heads to breakfast. He's surprising himself by how invested he is in making sure Hancock knows he's not getting the boot.

Breakfast is good that morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Deacon goes with Charmer to look at Starlight. They pick up Strong on the way, and he talks them through his process as they finish the walk to the southeast.

"Brahmin all slow and stupid. But a scared Brahmin... very strong. Poles for fence go deep, deep into the ground."

"Good," Charmer says approvingly. "And you made the smaller pen like I asked?"

"For the bull," Strong replies, proving he remembers. "Behind the houses. Won't see his women. Won't get..." He fumbles for the word.

"Worked up," Deacon suggests lightly. Strong huffs out a long, heavy breath, like that phrase will have to do. "So this is the brahmin husbandry site you've been toying with?"

"Among other things," Charmer says. "Strong, you made the planters?"

"Near the pen for the lady brahmins. So puny farmers not have to carry dung so far."

"That's very thoughtful on your part," Charmer remarks.

Strong's expression hints that he would rather not have that pointed out. "Carrots. Corn. Tatos. Not matter. Planters deep enough."

When they arrive, Deacon gives a slow whistle to the towering junk walls that greet them there. Strong pushes a partially hidden door open - it's going to take at least two humans to do that, Deacon's pretty sure, or else they're going to rig up a pulley system - and, wow.

"This place is huge," Deacon says. He hadn't expected the wall to surround the entire paved area. "Strong, you did all this?"

Strong grunts. "Building easy. Blue Lady show how. Hard for weak humans, carrying wood and steel, but not hard for Strong."

Deacon looks at the sinkhole in the middle - the radioactive barrels have been cleared out, and there's the beginnings of a water filtration system. (Probably as much as Strong could do without guidance.) There are huge, deep planters over by a large pen, and several simple but sturdy looking buildings. "How many people...?"

"Twelve," Charmer says. "Ten packages, two teachers. I want to get MacCready here first to make sure everyone knows how to handle guns other than energy weapons. And Jeremy, at the same time, to get the plants started and to show them how to keep them going. It might be a while before I can buy enough brahmin through Bunker Hill to fill the pens, though..."

"Packages," Deacon repeats faintly.

"They need a safe place to get caught up." Charmer points to a large, two-story hut with windows. "And several of them already have skills they can translate. Anyone who worked in botany will work with Jeremy. Anybody who worked in security will be first to work with MacCready. The tech's a little harder to translate, but once this place is populated, I'm going to start moving the electronics side of the junk house here so they can learn to scrap, rewire, do all the salvage aspects of what they-"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Charmer rubs the back of her neck, cheeks reddening. Deacon guesses that she anticipated this reaction, but still isn't sure how to handle it. "It's not really a present for  _you_ , exactly, but I still got it in my head to surprise you, and..." She gestures around. "I don't know, the more drawings I gave to Strong about how it should look, the more I realized it wouldn't take much to turn this from a usual settlement into something a little more focused. This land's pretty quiet, too, so I - oh."

Deacon holds her tightly and kisses her cheek. "You're wonderful," he tells her.

"BLUE LADY AND BALD HUMAN NOT BREED HERE," Strong shouts firmly from the other side of the settlement.

**

"So," Deacon says on the way back. "How many more surprises have you got cooking up?"

Charmer turns and gives him a funny look, and he shrugs.

"I figure if you don't want to say what they are, you can just say 'some'."

She considers this. "That's fair," she says finally. "I... first..."

"That long a list, huh?"

Charmer bites her lip and looks back toward Starlight, then the road ahead. "Well, I assume you already know about Danse."

He can't let it be that easy - he's made promises to these people. "Know what about Danse?"

"Where he..." And she looks around again, making extra sure, and how Deacon managed to find a girl more paranoid than he is, he'll never know. "Where he comes from," Charmer says carefully.

Deacon nods. "I never met him before, but once he started talking about how he grew up..." He scratches his ear. "The Memory Den only has so many stories it plugs into people, you know?"

Charmer looks surprised, like she hadn't considered that angle of it before. "Well. He's been doing some soul-searching in a bunker since he found out about himself, and... he doesn't want to leave yet. I send a runner every so often to leave notes and food."

"Certainly a stubborn type of guy," Deacon remarks.

"No shit." she sighs. "And Nick brought Virgil up from the Waste. He's-"

" _What?_ "

"The Institute is gone. He doesn't have to stay there anymore." Charmer shrugs. "I've got him in the lab under Ranger Cabin."

"You moved the Institute scientist _closer_ to us?" Deacon pulls a face. "Charmer, can we  _trust_  him?"

"His loyalty's to himself - I know that. But I killed his enemies and I've promised to supply him as long as he keeps developing Commonwealth-relevant stuff." She eyes him, smiling. "Plus, he's too proud to do half-assed work."

Deacon mulls over this. "But you haven't given him any intel," he says. Charmer nods. "And he doesn't work on anything that could be weaponized?"

"No." Charmer shrugs. "Honestly, I think he'll be a help at some point. And unlike Danse, he's incredibly productive when left to his own devices."

"Well, I'm certainly learning things." Deacon eyes her. "Anything else?"

Charmer smiles grimly. "Yes, some of which I can even make myself talk about." She takes a slow breath. "...I've really been wanting to send you out to recruit Mel. Like, almost since before we took out the Institute."

"The robotics guy who worked with Bobbi," Deacon says. "Not a bad idea. So why haven't you?"

Her cheeks are tinged pink. "Because it would probably take you a week, maybe more, to track him down and play it right."

It takes Deacon a moment to work this out. "...because you'd  _miss_  me?"

Charmer resolves not to answer, quickening her pace toward Sanctuary. 

**

Hours later, when they're wrapped up in bed, Charmer takes a breath and holds it for a few moments.

"Nate had a son," she says quietly.

Deacon blinks in the darkness. "What?"

"Things I haven't told you." Charmer sounds ... vulnerable. "That's one."

"Oh," Deacon says, and thinks about it. "...with his first wife."

"Yes."

Charmer's never mentioned a child before. Maybe the first wife took the kid when she bailed. From what Deacon knows about Nate, that would probably be really hard on him. "I'm sorry."

She swallows and shifts under the blankets. "Yeah."

**

MacCready oversees the armory move, but he keeps getting side-tracked every time he pulls out a new kind of rifle - he always takes a minute to show it to Duncan.

(Duncan, for his part, seems very happy with the old revolver barrel he dug up out of a scrap box. He rolls it back and forth on the ground with clumsy hands, mumbling to himself.)

"See the stock, Dunk? It's for marksmen." MacCready lowers the gun a little so it's closer to Duncan's field of vision.

"He doesn't care," Hancock points out helpfully, lugging a box of ammo. "Quit tryin' to play teacher and haul some shit."

"Some  _stuff_ ," MacCready corrects sharply.

"Stuff," Hancock agrees, rolling his eyes. "We got a lotta  _stuff_ to move. Lotta  _things_. Lotta  _items_."

Deacon takes a break from chopping gourds for dinner, watching Duncan for a few moments before heading to the junk house. There's a few wooden race cars that still have all four wheels, and he picks two out and brings them over.

"Hey buddy." He rolls one forward. "Any interest in these?"

Duncan stares at the yellow car as it rolls toward him, but loses interest as soon as it stops moving. He is strongly dedicated to figuring out how to splay all his fingers out so he can fit one in every chamber of the barrel.

"Understandable." Deacon shrugs. "I can't compete with a busted-up part of a six-shooter. Those are all the rage with kids these days."

Curie stops her trek from Charmer's house to the armory and blinks. "Is zat true?"

"No," Deacon says honestly, "Most kids legitimately like toys. I think my problem is that I'm trying to entertain a MacCready clone with something that doesn't murder people."

"Give 'im your knife," Hancock suggests on his trip back to the house.

" _Do not_ ," MacCready shouts from the armory.

Deacon grins and leans forward, feigning a reach toward his boot just to give MacCready some hell. "Duncan, you wanna help me chop gourds?" He's distracted enough by MacCready's expression as he bursts from the armory that he doesn't notice the tiny hand reach up, grabbing his sunglasses off his face.

"Arb," Duncan mumbles, chubby hands tugging gently to discover how the hinges work. Deacon makes an aborted movement to grab them back before stopping himself.

"Hey, uh, pal. How about a trade?" Deacon fishes around in his pocket, ignoring Curie's delighted giggle and MacCready's smug expression. "You like gumdrops?"

Duncan does not appear to give two shits about gumdrops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone commenting!


	3. Chapter 3

They take turns visiting her.

Some nights, Charmer draws her fingertips up and down Deacon's arm as they eat at the fire. Or, if it's cold enough that it won't turn the living room into a furnace, she cooks on the stove and they eat across from each other at the little table by the door.

Afterward, they curl up on the bed together. Or she pushes him down onto it. Deacon feels like his body is getting used to this kind of physical exertion again, this kind of endurance.

He also feels like some part of him is learning how to be happy again.

There are other nights where she doesn't invite him back. He talks with Preston and watches MacCready chase after Duncan, or lights some candles in his room and reads. The salvaged paperbacks are schlocky, cheesy, over-the-top. Detectives chasing shadowed figures in the rain.

They're perfect.

One night, Deacon decides to go check on her. The dim candlelight is glowing from the space between the curtains, so he goes to the window. Hancock is bent down between Charmer's legs, face obscured as he tastes her and makes her moan. Her hand is stroking the back of his head, thumb rubbing little circles. Deacon feels a pleasant thrum from listening to her breathe in those little gasps. From watching Hancock pull back for breath, nuzzling her inner thigh as he pants. Deacon adjusts himself, grins, and walks home.

Another night, the curtains are drawn. There is no light. Deacon imagines Charmer sleeping alone for once, just because she feels like it, and smiles to himself without knowing exactly why.

**

**

"Nine-iron," Charmer quizzes, readjusting her grip on the aluminum bat and inspecting fragments of the mole rat's skull littering the ground.

"Sports thing," Deacon returns quickly. He thinks back. Some long-dead sport that rich people liked. It was in some novel about old men enjoying the nice weather. "Tennis?"

"Golf," Charmer corrects, miming hard swing to something small a few inches off the ground. "There were different clubs for different kinds of swings."

That actually kind of makes sense. "What was the nine-iron like?"

"Heavy metal end, short handle. Good for lobbing stuff up-and-over, or..." She gestures toward the dead mole rat. "A bit of melee, should the need arise."

Deacon takes on the rich, northwestern voice he's picked up from holotapes. "Janet, _dar_ -ling, you simply _must_ see what I've done with the parlor."

She laughs. "What, darling?"

"The delivery boy's blood is just spattered _ev_ erywhere."

" _Dar_ -ling!"

"I had to liven up those awful drapes somehow, dearest."

Charmer tsks as she uses a rag to wipe the blood off the end of the bat. "Always so dra _ma_ tic."

**

Hancock never really asks Deacon to talk in private, so when Deacon's invited back to Hancock's room, he's intrigued.

"Tell me this isn't a stupid idea."

Deacon shuts the door behind him, watching as Hancock kneels down to the foot locker at the end of his bed and pulls out a rolled up pelt. Deacon's eyebrows raise when Hancock lays it on the bed, then go up a little higher when he finishes unrolling it.

"That's _one_ radstag?" Deacon asks.

"Was," Hancock mutters, smoothing it out. It's bigger than Hancock's twin bed can really accommodate, spilling over the pillow and over the side, nearly touching the floor. Deacon's seen radstag pelts made into blankets before, but never this big, and the coat has never looked this shined and worked. Instead of rough and coarse, it looks like a woman's mink coat in an old cigarette pin-up.

"Where did someone find one this big to shoot? How much did this _cost_ you?"

Hancock grunts noncommittally. He's running the pads of his fingers over the material as if he's not sure it's up to snuff. "I called in a favor to buy it off a big game hunter up near Maine. A local guy I know cleaned it up." His mouth, already in a tight line, twists. "Will she even like it? She's..." Pre-war, Deacon finishes in his mind, and understands the question. What's a luxury item now might look like a barbaric trophy to someone from so far back.

"She'll get it," Deacon says, finding himself motivated to reassure Hancock. "She might not realize how much work it is to get it into this condition nowadays, but..." His eyes linger on it. Where Hancock had been touching it, the fine hairs are delicately rising back up to their original position. "She'll realize that one big enough to fit her bed is fucking impossible to find, at the very least."

"Hm." Hancock still looks unsure, but he nods, grabbing a short end and beginning to roll it back up. "Thanks," he adds as an afterthought.

"No problem." Deacon lets himself out.

**

That evening, Deacon knocks on Charmer's door and is called to come in by Hancock. Charmer is naked on the bed, stretching herself across the expanse of the soft fur.

"Oh," Deacon says, because whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. It's not until Hancock shuts the door behind him that Deacon realizes he had left it open.

"Yeah," Hancock agrees smugly, eyes still on her. She almost looks like she's posing for a picture, except that she's so genuinely pleased - she's drawing her leg up and down against the pelt, then both arms, rolling onto her side.

"Deacon, look what Hancock got me." She sounds pleased as punch. "I didn't know anyone could get radstag this soft, did you?"

"Not many can," Deacon says, collecting just enough brain cells to help Hancock out. "That's a really nice gift."

She beams at him. "That's what I said!"

Hancock sidles next to him. "For the record," he rumbles, "she was wearing something when I gave it to her."

"I'm  _appreciating_ it," Charmer informs him airily.

"Don't let either of us stop you." Deacon's smile is crooked.

"Oh, hush." She grabs a corner, folding herself up and wriggling contentedly. "Mmm, this is perfect. Come feel."

Hancock looks uncertainly at Deacon, then back to Charmer. "Who're you talking to?"

Deacon spots the idea forming in Charmer's mind - _Both_ , his mind says,  _she wants both_ \- and elects to cut that off at the pass. "You, obviously." He gives Hancock a friendly nudge in the side before turning on his heel and heading for the door.

Charmer makes a disappointed sound. "You won't stay?" A beat. "Even just to watch?"

The idea of joining is definitely too much, but even being in the same room as them, with them able to watch him _back_... not yet. Maybe sometime, though? He doesn't feel distasteful of the idea so much as not ready for it yet.

"I'm not the one decking you out like a kept woman," Deacon jokes. "Tonight's definitely Hancock's." Deacon waves to her - it hasn't escaped his notice that Hancock's still looking to Charmer and not him, deliberately hiding something on his face - and takes his leave.

For all his hesitation at some things, it does feel easy to do this, to leave them together. Deacon's room has always been a nice retreat, far less drafty than most of his hideouts or HQ, and the accumulated rugs and bookshelf full of literature make it easy to relax here now. He pulls out the matchbox and lights enough candles to read by.

Deacon gets through a few chapters of the latest paperback before getting caught up in the idea of Hancock and Charmer together; of Charmer's patient smile and Hancock's huge dark eyes looking at her like he can't believe his luck. He can feel himself starting to get hard.

Deacon locks the door and strokes himself slowly, trying to picture how he'd fit into it. He could kiss her as Hancock went down on her; her breathy little sounds would be right up close and he could finally see her face as she fell apart. Deacon imagines looking down the length of Charmer's body and seeing someone else touching her, up close. It wouldn't be difficult, but would it be awkward? He's not sure.

In his mind, Deacon switches their positions. Deacon is between Charmer's legs, licking her out and fingering her and - because it's his fantasy, and it doesn't matter that they haven't done this yet - getting up on his knees and finally pushing into her. In his mind, she feels warm and tight, and she's moaning. Hancock is watching.

Deacon frowns in distaste, hand slowing down. Something about being watched doesn't feel right. (Doesn't feel  _safe?_  ) Deacon imagines pleasuring himself in front of Charmer, shy at first but egged on by her words and her hungry stare, and his erection hardens further in his hand. He swallows.  _Okay_ , so his limits are a little complicated, maybe sex in general doesn't feel safe now so much as  _Charmer_  feels safe...

Charmer could watch him. She could watch him do anything, as far as he's concerned. God, and watching  _her_ would be... Deacon imagines Charmer spread over that pelt, one hand cupping her breast and squeezing it as two fingers dip between her legs in careful strokes. Finding the right rhythm, her back would arch off the bed a little, hips squirming. Deacon bites back a sound and squeezes himself tighter.

Hancock would be next to him, Deacon supposes. Watching too. But Hancock's not the type to hold still well. Hancock would probably keep looking to Deacon, that permanent unsure expression he's had recently, aroused but on unfamiliar ground.

That's fine. Charmer's enough to throw anyone off their game, Deacon not excluded. He takes in a stuttering breath and palms the head of his cock, eyes fluttering shut, imagining the flash of Charmer's tongue across her lips as she fingers herself deeper and turns her head to the side, lip bitten bright red. God, Deacon's ready to come. Hancock might get on his knees in front of Deacon, helping him get there faster-

Wait.


	4. Chapter 4

Curie and Preston are finally bound for the Railroad - Curie to learn from Tinker Tom and Carrington, and Preston to sit down with Desdemona and discuss how they can work together. Deacon did not expect the instructions on how to get there to be met with confusion.

"The... shop?" Curie asks in Deacon's room.

Deacon shakes his head. "Your Geiger counter isn't actually in any shop," he says, smiling. "When you give that response, they'll know you're the right two people, and they'll take you to HQ."

Preston grins. "I knew you wouldn't just give us the coordinates," he says, voice low and amused. "You've gotta make it complicated."

"Hey now, when you meet the family you're going to have to show a deep, heart-felt respect for that kind of paranoia. It's what's kept us alive and kickin'."

Curie pouts slightly as she thinks. "Is zere anything else we should know? Codes for when we arrive, or leave?"

"Nah. Just..." Deacon trails off, trying to determine how best to describe Tom. "Just take it from me that I'm not the weirdest person in the group. Prepare yourself for that."

Curie just nods, but Preston looks deeply concerned.

**

**

An hour before they're due to leave, Preston visits Deacon in his room again.

"So you know after I meet your people, I'm headed to Diamond City."

"And Curie's going to Spectacle Island to teach them all the weird salt stuff," Deacon finishes for him. "Yeah?"

Preston looks uncomfortable. "I just - I think this Home Plate setup is going to take a while to get sorted out, and then I've got to go spearhead some renovations at the Castle, so it might be a couple months..."

"Is there a... plant? That you need me to water?"

Preston pinches the bridge of his nose.

" _Several_ plants," Deacon hazards.

"Can you be serious for a few minutes, please?"

His voice is genuinely tight with stress, so Deacon shrugs, crossing his arms across his chest and waiting for Preston to talk.

"How long have you known Jane now? Six months?"

"Give or take." Deacon pushes down the desire to stop whatever this conversation is before it starts.

"So you haven't-" Preston hesitates. "When she came back here after the Institute, she was really... quiet. You were with her, you probably saw even more of it than I did."

"Yeah," Deacon confirms vaguely, wondering where this is going. It's not necessary to mention that Deacon had to talk Charmer out of walking back on her own, because something about her affect was so off-putting he wasn't sure she'd be alright by herself. And while other people at Sanctuary might have assumed that Charmer came home and must have just been elsewhere, or interacting with someone other than them, Deacon knew for a fact that she didn't leave her house for days.

Preston rubs the back of her neck. "I don't think she'll go AWOL on us like she used to, but if she does, just check in the vault, okay?"

Deacon's thrown for a loop. "What?"

"In the - in 111." Preston swallows. "Early on when I knew her, she'd... leave, now and again. Both times I found her in there she didn't seem to realize how long she'd... it's like she'd lost track of time, talking to-" He cuts himself off. "I think she's going to be fine, I just. In case she's not, I wanted there to be one person around who'd know where to look for her."

Going AWOL? Lost track of time? Talking to... Nate? God, it would have had to have been Nate.

"Deacon?"

"Yeah, vault, got it."

"Okay. I'm sorry, if..." 

"No, I appreciate it. Thanks, man. And good luck in the city."

Preston smiles ruefully. "Thanks. I"m worried I'll need it."

"Don't sweat it too much." Deacon shrugs one shoulder. "Remember, you've got friends in hard-to-find places."

**

**

Tipsy, Charmer moves her chair around the table until she's next to Deacon. She sets the bourbon down and raises one hand slowly, beginning to touch his face.

"Hi," Deacon says, laughing softly as she perches his sunglasses on top of his head to continue tracing invisible lines. His jaw, the bridge of his nose. "What are we doing?"

"You've got a really good face," Charmer tells him, tilting her head and brushing her thumb along his chin. "I still haven't seen anyone else with one as good."

"You could save a few syllables and just call me handsome."

"I didn't mean that part," she says, as if that's a given. When he smirks she smirks back, brushing her nose against his for a moment before continuing her exploration. "Your facial reconstruction. Face swap," she corrects. "When I met you it was such an awkward thing to compliment, so I didn't. And it's been ages now and I still haven't seen one like it." She sighs. "Used to be, people would inject things... their cheekbones would look huge, or their lips would be puffy. Or their eyebrows would be high up and wouldn't move. That's how you'd know." She shrugs. "Now, there's faint scars along the jawline, like seams, or... the complexions don't match up everywhere... little inconsistencies. But not you."

Deacon's not sure what to say to that - of _course_ someone like her would have picked up on those things. (And of  _course_ she's been paying attention to his face.) He just ducks his head a little, leaning closer to her in silent consent. She uses her fingertips to press and nudge gently along his cheeks. "No zipper," he promises. "No matter how hard you look." She giggles; pleased, he turns and catches her hand to kiss it before letting it go again. "There are little tricks. To. Helping it heal right, things like that."

Her eyes are warm and mischievous as they meet his. "Little secrets."

"Yeah." He smiles and swallows. He should tell her. Hancock got her a damn fur, Deacon should give her something too. "It..." This is a risk. "I don't have a guy."

Her hand pulls away, but it's not gone. She's set it on top of his, on her thigh. "No?"

"No." He looks down at the table. "I used to, a long time ago. He was great at keeping quiet but his work wasn't... I wanted it to be  _right_."

She'll understand that part, at least. Getting a job done right so often means doing something yourself.

"After the third one, I decided it wasn't any good walking around with a fresh face if you could tell it wasn't natural. So I," he gestures vaguely. "Some Med-X, some whiskey to keep my hands from shaking. Lots of mirrors."

Charmer's watching him very carefully. When he shrugs, indicating he's done, she takes a moment. "You've been doing it to yourself."

"Yeah," Deacon says. He can still remember Vicky's face when he'd told her, so offhand, that he'd given up on Doc Black and done it himself this time. Her face had been more than shock; it had been disgust. That he did that.  _Could_ do that. It was around then that he'd stopped trying to make nice at HQ, stop letting people get close when it was so clear that they'd all flinch away if they knew how broken-

"That's why it's so good," Charmer's saying to herself.

"What?"

Brow creased, she leans forward and traces his jawline again. "You must've been opening and closing your mouth, making faces... making sure everything set right."

He'd never told anyone. "Yeah," he says faintly.

"That's why it never looks too tight or too loose anywhere. God." Her mouth is pressed into a thin line, but it isn't revulsion. It's something else. "If you ever have to do that again, will you let me help?"

Will he what? "What?"

"So you're not alone when you do it." Charmer looks more sober now, serious. Her hand is delicate on the spot beneath his ear. "Please."

Deacon swallows. "If you want," he says finally. "I don't think I'll... I mean, not as many faceless omnipresent organizations to hide from nowadays. As there were back then."

"But that wasn't the only reason you did it," Charmer says, and it's not really a question.

Deacon doesn't know what to say to that, so he ducks his head a little. She scoots closer and lays her cheek on his shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

"Egg rolls," Charmer quizzes.

He finishes chewing his food. "'Role' like a job, or 'roll' like rolling down a hill?"

"Down a hill."

"Hmm." Deacon bites his lip. "Is it one of those games at a fair?" He knows there's one where you balanced eggs on a spoon and raced with them, and he's pretty sure that was literally just called an 'egg race'.

"Wrong." But she doesn't sound victorious. "It's a food."

Ah. "Craving them?"

"Yes," Charmer confesses, and laughs when he scoots his chair next to hers to give her a comforting one-armed hug. "God. If I could take you back, I'd..."

This is a new concept. "Take me out to eat?" he finishes for her, making sure his eyebrow wiggle is on full display.

She giggles. "I'd make you so fat," she enthuses.

"On weird pre-war food?"

"On _exotic_  food," Charmer corrects. "Ex-pats would come back from overseas and miss the food. From China."

Egg rolls are Chinese. Okay. "There were Chinese restaurants in America? Those were allowed?"

"Well, not exactly...?" She see-saws her hand. "But a lot of restaurants started offering things on the menu with similar noodles, or... I think egg rolls were sort of an American invention to mimic Chinese food... it was kind of its own style."

She sounds homesick. Deacon lays his head on her shoulder, looking up. "I'd make you order for me," he informs her with mock seriousness.

"I'd spoil you," she assures him, fingertips tickling down his belly. "Appetizers. Steak. Good wine."

"Would you pull my chair out for me?"

Charmer laughs and kisses the crown of his head. "Don't get too cocky, or there won't be a treat after your dessert."

He shudders. "I'll be a good dinner date," he promises. God. He's in deep; he struggles to think back to the holotapes of teen romances, what the love interest would always say... "Just don't try to park the car on the hill. I'm not that kind of girl."

"I'll take you home," she promises back. "Lay you down on the bed, treat you properly..." Her hand is inching lower now. Deacon bites back a moan.

"I don't know," he hedges, letting his voice go a little soft. Not completely committing to the character, but not rejecting it, either. Her fingers are massaging his inner thigh, making him tremble. "Won't you just think I'm loose if I say yes?"

Her chuckle vibrates in his bones as she cups him and presses her fingers gently, teasing through the denim of his jeans. "You're my best girl," she assures him. "I'd never think something like that about you."

 _Best girl_. He'll freak out over his newly discovered genderplay kink later, because right now the praise is ringing in his ears and drowning out anything else. Deacon spreads his thighs slowly enough that he hopes it won't be obvious. "You... you won't go telling everyone in town you made it with me?" he presses.

"I wouldn't kiss and tell," Charmer promises. "C'mon, baby, let me get a hand under your shirt. I'll make you feel so nice."

"You're fucking good at this," Deacon says, unable to hold the comment back. She laughs, herself again, and gives him a satisfying squeeze before letting go and nudging her fingertips up under his tee.

"You're so cute when you're shy for me. I've got lots of incentive to make it good."

"I'll be anything you want," Deacon tells her, before he can think. Her fingers stop a moment, digging in, and then she's pushing her chair back and throwing her leg over him, straddling him at the fucking breakfast table and using her free hand to pull him in by the back of the neck. He grabs her waist and kisses her, open-mouthed, panting, rutting his hips up against hers. When he flinches away because she bit his lip too hard, she pulls both hands up to cradle his jaw, stroking in apology, kissing her way down his neck instead.

"Just you, right now," she says near his ear. "You and me, okay?"

"Yeah," Deacon agrees. He lets his eyes drift shut, cupping her breast and squeezing it as she starts to tease his ear. "Yeah, definitely."

Her nails rake down his jawline, around to the nape of his neck, making him shiver. She rolls her hips. "You don't have to tell me yours," she says quietly, "but I'm Beryl."

"Beryl," Deacon echoes, before he realizes what she means. "Oh."

_Oh my god._

"Kiss me," Beryl says, and so he leans forward and does, hugging her body to his as tightly as he can.

**

"It's a stone, right?"

She turns her head, smiling at him over the rumpled sheets as she nods.

"What color is it?"

She shrugs. "Green, usually. Not always."

**

 _Beryl_. He keeps it in the back of his mind, safe, knowing without having to ask that she hasn't told another soul in centuries.

**

** 

"You've gotten weird," MacCready tells him thoughtfully over lunch a few days later. It's raining, and they're sitting under one of the garage roofs as they eat their soup.

"Do tell."

"You used to smile all the time. Kinda smile that made me wanna punch you in the face." MacCready shrugs. "Now, smile's different. I stopped wanting to slug you months ago, either way, but. It's less of a..." He checks around for Duncan. "Shit-eating grin and more of a..."

Deacon quirks a brow. "A soup-eating grin?" he offers.

"I don't know, I'm not a poet." The other man huffs and gestures at Deacon's general direction as if pointing something out. "If you were a girl I'd thought you were knocked up. You're all glowy."

"Well, it's really good soup."

"F- ...screw you."

"Well, if you're gonna be like that, I'm not gonna take your bowl when I get seconds."

**

After Switchboard went down, Deacon had to work on keeping it off his face for weeks after. He'd stare in the mirror and find every place where the pain tightened the skin near his eyes, his mouth, his jawline, and focused on relaxing those parts to smooth himself into something bland and calm and unremarkable.

This newer issue seems to have snuck up on him. He tries staring in the hand mirror in his room a few times, but he's not sure what he's looking for.

**

The dead drop has coordinates for a new synth, but Preston and Curie left four days ago. Deacon burns the scrap of paper and goes to see Charmer about it.

"It should be you and Hancock," she says thoughtfully.

Deacon mulls it over. "He's already read in," he says. "And he's definitely not one to shy away from the shooting and the stabbing, should that kind of thing come up."

"It does, sometimes," Charmer agrees mildly, and gestures toward the door. "Out there."

Deacon knows she's happy, but he also hasn't forgotten that time with the pelt. What had been in her eyes. "You're enjoying the excuse to stick us together, aren't you?"

She smiles. "You might be good for each other," she says meaningfully.

"I'll have you know I couldn't possibly benefit from any further improvement. I am already my best self."

Charmer walks over and kisses his cheek. "Take some extra boxes of ammo. Don't be gone too long."

Deacon risks it, hungry for the possible reward: "You gonna miss me?"

There's a flicker of hesitation on her expression, but that's to be expected. She has her own walls. "Yes," she says, as if floating that truth out to see what happens, and her body relaxes against his when he nuzzles closer and strokes his hands up her sides.

**

Hancock has packed rations, a pistol, a shotgun, ammo for both, the knife that Deacon knows for a  _fact_ is his best knife, a crowbar, a length of rope, duct tape, stimpacks, and... whiskey.

"Satisfied I know how to travel yet?" Hancock mutters, pulling his knapsack back from Deacon and closing it up so he can sling it over his shoulder.

"I took Curie out hunting once and she had packed  _a dog bowl_ ," Deacon says unapologetically.

"Yeah, well, I didn't spend most of my life as a robot trapped in a vault with no notions of the outside world." As they cross Sanctuary's bridge, Hancock shoots him a look. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but you  _of all people_ should know what I've been up to before we all came up here."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," Deacon says, in the sort of tone that neither confirms nor denies, but maybe confirms a little bit.

"Uh-huh." Hancock, as always, is a good enough sport about that part of the game. He doesn't press further, just kicks a rock as the Red Rocket station starts to come into view, picking the conversation back up: "I always wanted to know. How do you get started in a shadowy organization like that, anyway? One that can getcha in that amount of trouble?"

Deacon opens his mouth to answer, but stops, giving it a little more thought. "About the same way you become mayor."

And in the following pause, Deacon watches through the mostly-indecipherable swirl of ridges and scars that make up Hancock's face, only able to make out the basics: annoyance, then contemplation. A long bout of reflection.

"You were that bad off, huh?"

Deacon laughs hollowly. "Yeah," he admits. "I really was."


	6. Chapter 6

Hancock doesn't bring up Charmer - this isn't new - but he does bring up safer topics, like the gossip from Fahrenheit's more recent letters. Apparently Magnolia has a new admirer who's been coming to see her shows almost every night. Magnolia's always been picky about girls, Hancock confides, so this scavver chick hasn't got much of a chance.

"Are we rooting for her?" Deacon asks.

"Charlie sure ain't." Hancock laughs. "I've never met another bartender who got _mad_ about new regulars."

**

Rocky Narrows Park is gloomy and quiet. There's some ferals stirring in one of the buildings; Hancock offers to take them out. The shots echo and Deacon waits until Hancock walks back out, rattling the meager loot on his pocket, before he shrugs his bag off his shoulder.

They sit on the run-down porch of a decrepit green house, drinking water and eating jerky.

"What to we say to 'em?" Hancock asks after some comfortable silence.

"The synth?" Deacon asks. "I've intercepted runaways before, but never like this, exactly..." He scratches the back of his neck. "Teleporting them  _all_ out like we did means some of 'em don't even necessarily know about the Railroad. Or believe in it... or like it. But that's definitely what we open with."

Hancock grunts. "'Don't worry, ma'am, or sir. My friend's here from the Railroad. And I'm...'"

"Handy with a shotgun," Deacon finishes neatly.

"I was going to say 'not the kinda freak you need to be scared of', but there's gotta be a more concise way to say that." Hancock cocks his head. "If I say I'm not feral, does that  _mean_ anything to 'em?"

Deacon see-saws his hand. "Most of 'em don't have a real idea of anything going on topside. The Institute liked to feed everyone a really warped picture of what it's like up here."

"It  _is_ pretty fucked up here," Hancock allows.

"Yeah, but we're not all desperate cannibals barely scraping by. And there aren't sixty foot deathclaws around every corner."

Hancock laughs. "Thank god." He leans back and takes a sip of water, mulling over it. "I don't know how the fuck Jane played along with that shit."

Deacon hmms. "She's not a bad liar."

"No, but-" Hancock turns, looking him in the eye now. "You know she  _hates_ shit like that. I mean, not saying most people could  _take or leave_  something like slavery, but she gets that fire in her eyes and you  _know_."

"She'd have had to hide that," Deacon summarizes.

"Yeah." Hancock whistles low. "I don't know how you do it either." He frowns. "... How you did it? Whatever. I'll assume you're still a spy until I see signed retirement papers."

Deacon's smile is genuine. "You're a smart man, John Hancock."

"Really, though." Hancock lifts his chin. "The more I think about it... in my time, I've played spaced-out junkie to get someone to underestimate me... bloodthirsty when I needed someone to back down... and you, my conservative guess is you've been a professional liar for at least ten years. No offense."

"None taken." Deacon shrugs and bites off another piece of jerky.

"So we're plenty comfortable saying what we've got to. But Jane. She grew up pre-war, all cushy and academic, and then fell into... all this?" Hancock glances over his shoulder. "Back there, there's two dead bodies that look like something between burning and drowning victims, and it took two shots to each head to take 'em down. That shit didn't even happen on the  _battlefield_ back then."

He's got a point, and Deacon can't see a way to clue him in a little without saying too much. "You should ask her sometime," he says instead.

Hancock blinks slowly at him. "I should  _what?_ "

"She's getting better about that kind of thing." Deacon does the math in his head. What Hancock might ask, what Charmer might say. "I mean, she's not about to go do speaking tours, but.  _You_ could ask."

Hancock's looking at him skeptically. "I got a really nice thing going with her. You're not trying to make me rock the boat by accident, are you?" Before Deacon can respond, Hancock turns away. "No, never mind. That wasn't... you're not like that." He huffs out a breath. "You've been... I'm really grateful to you, actually."

Deacon thinks back to the image of Hancock on his knees, sucking him off. He feels a small, sick twinge of guilt and shrugs casually. "If this is a thank you thing, that's really not necessary."

Hancock looks like he wants to argue that point, but he drops it.

**

"Why'd Curie pack a dog bowl, anyway?"

Deacon sighs. "She thought hunters lured prey out by putting food out, and-" He stops as Hancock bursts into laughter. "Yeah, I know."

Hancock is doubled over. "I fuckin' love her," he rasps.

**

If the synth had gone to the scrap palace, they'd be dead by now - Deacon steers them toward the Robotics Pioneer Park.

"It's got at least one standing building left, and last I checked there were some protectron units in there."

Hancock's brows come together. "You're really banking on them running toward the shiniest tech in sight?"

"And getting a roof over their head," Deacon explains. "If you've never seen the sky before it can be pretty overwhelming to be lost in a huge open area. And because of the teleporter delay that Tom _still_ can't explain, they'd only have had a few days to get used to the sun..."

As Hancock takes this in, he looks to his left and right, up, as if trying to imagine how someone might see his surroundings for the first time.

Deacon tilts his head. "Ever heard of Plato's Cave?"

"No. Is it nearby?"

"Never mind."

Hancock grunts and rests his shotgun against his shoulder, starting to walk a little slower now that they're coming across the clearing. It's quiet, but that doesn't mean there aren't any undead resting on the ground. "So how do you want to play this? Once we clear it?"

"Whaddaya say I chat with them first, then bring you in after some gentle explanation of feral versus non-feral?"

"You know, that sounds like a plan." Hancock stops abruptly, and Deacon freezes too, following his line of sight and spotting a blood-spattered protectron trudging a circuit about forty meters away.

Deacon doesn't need to tell Hancock that feral blood never looks that red. He starts scanning the ground, looking at each strewn limb, but all of them are feral limbs that look blasted and smashed away until - there.

Grabbing Hancock's shoulder, he jerks his chin at a mangled right arm. The condition of the bloodied stump puts it at about a day old.

"Old sleeve," Hancock whispers, and Deacon nods - either the synth scavenged up some new clothes before they got killed or, more hopefully, they're looking at the remains of a scavver or raider. "New plan?"

"Slightly," Deacon murmurs. "They might've reprogrammed these protectrons to be aggressive, not defensive."

Hancock's eyes widen a little. "They can do that?"

"Depends on which department the Institute made them work in. Ready to follow my lead?" He waits until the ghoul nods, then whistles a short tune. "Anyone there?" he shouts. "We're friendly!"

The protectron stops and whirls around, but doesn't charge its laser. Behind the small house, another protectron appears. No voices. "Identify yourselves," the nearer protectron orders.

Deacon takes a steadying breath and walks into the clearing, hands in the air. "We're friends!" he calls. "We're with Nora."

There's a crashing thump inside the house, and then the sound of boots scrambling on wood, and then the door opens - the synth is a young woman with dull blonde hair and brown eyes ringed in dark circles. She's got miscellaneous raider leathers on over her Institute suit and she's holding a pipe pistol out at arm's length like she's terrified of it.

"We really are," Deacon says.

"Nora sent you?" The synth's voice is raspy -  _no clean water around here_ , Deacon thinks to himself. This one hasn't had a good time on her own.

"She did," Deacon confirms, and is about to say more when the synth cuts him off:

"There are more of you?"

"Behind me," Deacon says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder before going back to keeping his hands waaaay up. "My friend's back there. Did you rewire these guys?"

The synth hesitates. "Maybe," she hedges.

"Added an override to their AI to take direct orders from you?" he guesses.

"How did you know that?"

"Most of you guys do that in this situation. It's smart. You must have worked in Robotics."

She lowers her gun, just a few inches. It's enough, though. "BioScience."

Deacon whistles low. "So you're just smart in general, then."

"You haven't sent anyone before, right?" Her grip on the gun tightens. "Nora hasn't sent anyone before you?"

"No, no." Deacon sticks his leg out, pointing his boot at the human arm on the ground. "Whoever that was, I don't think you made a mistake there."

 _Thank God_ , her face says, and her eyes slam shut in relief as the gun lowers a little more.

"They tried to hurt you?" Deacon asks, softer. She just nods. "Thought you had things to take."

"I don't... have anything," the synth admits.

"That's okay." And when Deacon starts walking forward, she lets him, and so he puts a hand on the gun and presses it down until she's holding it at her side. "We're here to get you somewhere safe."

**

**

In the house, there are empty bottles and Sugar Bombs boxes neatly organized in the corner, next to a small pile of rags in the shape of a pillow. Deacon sits with her and explains that the raiders probably assumed that the protectrons were guarding something valuable, and that those guys murder _anyone_ for _anything_ , and so she did the right thing defending herself. He explains that not all ghouls are feral, and then has to spend five minutes promising her that all the half-naked ghouls littered around the house were definitely feral, and there  _definitely_ wasn't a sentient one milling around with them - non-feral ghouls think and act just like anyone else.

"My friend's one," Deacon says gently. "A regular ghoul."

"A safe one," the synth summarizes, fingers tight around the can of purified water.

"Totally safe. Safe as me."

She takes a deep breath. "Okay."

"His name's Hancock. What's yours, by the way?"

"K6-31." K6-31 chews her lip. "But I get to pick a new one, right? Z1-14 said that.. that up top, we can pick new names?"

"You can go by Hans Christian Anderson if you want," Deacon assures her. "Is it okay if I call Hancock in here? He's probably getting bored at the treeline."

"He looks like the things out there," K6-31 says slowly, "but he's... his brain isn't irradiated."

"Nope. He's annoying sometimes, but he's definitely not anybody you have to be scared of."

She breaks into a nervous smile. "O-okay."

Deacon nods and opens the front door, gesturing toward the silhouette in the woods. "Hancock, do you still have that wild mutfruit in your pack?"

"Yeah, why?" Hancock's voice is a little odd, and Deacon realizes he's trying to smooth it out and sound more like a 'normal human'.

"We've gotta rehydrate her. She ran out of water yesterday morning... already drank half my canteen."

"I'm sorry," K6-31 mumbles behind him.

"That's okay, it's what it's for." Deacon holds the door for Hancock, who stands in the entryway a few moments as if waiting for a loud and possibly violent reaction. When one doesn't come, he moves in and settles down in the corner. Once Deacon can see K6-31 he's pleased to find that she's staring at Hancock with huge eyes, but doesn't look scared so much as awed.

"N-nice to meet you," she says.

"You too," Hancock rumbles, and starts rooting through his bag. "Glad we found you alive."

"Her name's K6-31," Deacon introduces, "but we're workshopping new ones. Currently her favorite is Queen Elizabeth II, which I've tried to tell her is kind of long."

Hancock looks from K6-31's baffled face to Deacon's calm one, then rolls his eyes. "Deacon likes to joke," he explains.

"Oh. Oh, sorry. I." She laughs awkwardly. "I'm. Kind of out of sorts right now."

"It's okay, you don't have to pretend he's funny." He reaches out with a mutfruit, and she only hesitates for a moment before reaching out to take it, staring first at his gnarled fingers and then at the food.

"You said this is wild?" She looks at Deacon uncertainly.

"It's safe to eat," Deacon tells her.

"It's not that, it's...." She smiles a little. "They always told us the soil up here was too corrupted to really sustain life. But if things grow on their own, it's... I think it's maybe better up here than they told us."


	7. Chapter 7

"Cleopatra," Deacon suggests.

Hancock, walking ahead of them both, snorts. "Names are important. Take it seriously."

" _You_ took a historical figure's name. Why can't she?"

"She should pick her  _own_ ," Hancock insists, and Deacon can tell he's working to keep the irritation out of his voice so he doesn't come off as intimidating. What he doesn't seem to notice is the small smile at the corner of K6's mouth, her quiet pleasure at hearing one person joke and another person defend her. "And I don't see why she's gotta rush it."

"She doesn't," Deacon agrees smoothly. "But she's only got a limited time with us, and I want to give her my sense of style and panache before she meets the others at the Railroad." He whispers conspiratorially: "They're great folks, but they're no fun."

K6's brows come together immediately. "You're not coming with me?"

"We're escorting you to someone who's gonna take you to Headquarters," Deacon explains. "There they'll catch you up, and you can catch them up on whatever you can, and they'll place you somewhere that you'll like. Doing something you actually wanna do."

This interests her. "Like what?" She pauses a second. "Do people have... jobs? Up here? Like in pre-war times?"

Hancock shrugs. "Lots of people farm, but... if you like technology stuff, you can make a living fixing up turrets and turning scrap into gadgets. Or run a shop. Or be a guard."

"Nora's setting up a settlement for you new synths to learn how to turn your skills into something you can do up here. Your timing's perfect, maybe you can go live there." Deacon catches Hancock's curious look. "Starlight Drive-In," he explains.

"Nice," Hancock says, and turns to K6. "That's near where we live."

K6 seems to like that part a lot. "And other synths will be there," she muses. "But... will they be...?"

"Wiped?" Deacon finishes. Because that's always the question.  _Will my friends remember me._ "Probably not. Fewer synths are going for that now that there are safer places for them to hide."

Something flashes in her eyes. "M7-97... do you..."

"We keep records on everyone we've helped."

"Did he make it out?" she asks, talking fast suddenly. "It would have been several years ago, he, he went missing, and none of us were sure, but we all  _hoped_ he'd gotten out safe. He was so miserable, he was barely eating by the last month we saw him, we - have you heard of him? Tall, dark hair, broad chest, his voice was-"

"The Railroad will catch you up," Deacon interrupts gently. "Even if I knew who you were talking about, I might not want to 'out' him in front of guests." He gestures to Hancock, and K6 turns to him.

"You're not in the Railroad?"

"Just a concerned citizen," Hancock rasps mildly. "I hope M...7... I hope your friend got out okay."

"Me too." She sighs. "He... I mean, none of us were particularly happy with our lot in life, but M7-97 was barely holding on."

"Why?" Hancock asks.

"He was built to be a personal companion, and synths with that assignment are almost never... stable." She looks to Deacon for help in elaborating, but Deacon's still trying to figure out how to politely put the brakes on this subject.

"The Railroad will be able to tell you."

They walk in silence for a few minutes. K6 is looking down at her feet, as if trying to resolve something in her mind. Finally, she says, quietly:

"If he got out, and he found you guys... he would've taken the wipe. He would want to forget it all. ...that's okay, though. If it means he might be happy, I don't need him to remember me."

**

**

There are more ferals a few miles on, blocking the way. Not wanting to attract more or spook K6, Deacon nods as Hancock gestures for him to take her into one of the destroyed cars.

"He'll take care of them and we'll be safe in here."

"Is he... immune to them?"

"No. He's just really good at stabbing things."

Deacon watches as Hancock circles the first one, closing in, and striking with his knife in a quick motion that connects with the base of its skull. It only makes enough noise to catch the attention of the feral near the trash can, which Hancock grabs by the throat and throws down on the ground so he can crush its head with his boot.

The third one is behind the brick wall, head barely visible as it stumbles along. Hancock crouches down to pick up a rock, throwing it against the metal of the trash can with a soft clang. When the feral moves closer to investigate, Hancock falls in step behind it and slides his knife neatly into its temple.

The body drops gracelessly to the concrete sidewalk, and Hancock looks up to the car, frowning. "Whydja let her watch? She doesn't need to see this kinda stuff."

**

**

The runner is waiting for them at the drop, and when he asks them if they have a geiger counter, Deacon lets K6 do the honors.

"Ours is in the shop," she recites. "Or - mine? Is it  _mine_ is in the shop?"

Deacon pats her shoulder. "Either works." He looks to Jonesy, who's already leaning against the brick wall again, checking the exits. "Talk to the boss about putting her at Starlight, okay?"

"No promises," Jonesy mutters.

"Not even for old times?" He tilts his sunglasses down and flutters his lashes, making Jonesy groan.

"You never get to send him back to us," Jonesy tells Hancock, taking K6 by the elbow and leading her down the alley. "He's yours now. No returns."

Hancock lifts one brow. "Take care," he calls to K6.

"Bye. See you later, I hope? Thank you." She nods as Jonesy shushes her gently, and follows him around the bend, out of sight.

Deacon smiles.

**

"You're really good with 'em," Hancock remarks, on their way back northwest.

"Hm?"

"The synths. Not sayin' they're all the same, just - you know, the freshly-escaped, scared-as-shit thing. You talked her down pretty good."

"Lots of experience," Deacon chirps. When he theatrically holds a branch back to allow Hancock to walk ahead of him, Hancock snorts and goes ahead. "You didn't do half bad yourself. She even smiled at you a couple times."

"Yeah, she was sweet." Hancock sounds a little sad.

"You can't get attached like that, pal. She might end up on the ass-end of the Commonwealth for the rest of her life. The important thing is that she'll  _have_ a life, now."

"How can you let 'em go like that? Over and over? Just hand 'em off, wave goodbye?"

"HQ used to have me shadow 'em for a few days, but they'd usually beg me to leave them alone before the week was out." Deacon takes on an innocent expression, as if he has no idea why anyone would find him annoying.

"Uh-huh." Hancock steps around a fallen tree and readjusts his pack. "You ever meet M... M7... that one guy?"

 _Yes, and so have you._ "If I did, it would be classified."

"I'd never heard of that before. 'Personal companions'." Hancock lets the question hang in the air.

"It's exactly as disgusting as you're thinking," Deacon confirms. "The Institute was really twisted."

Hancock's silent ahead of him, but something about the line of his shoulders tells Deacon everything he needs to know.

"You wish you could've blown 'em up in a slow, torturous way?" Deacon guesses.

Hancock's laugh is humorless. "Yup."

"Me too."

**

**

The lanterns are lit by the time they make it back to Sanctuary. Deacon does as Charmer asked before they left, scrubbing up in his room and changing into some clean clothes to go see her.

Feeling playful, he walks to her window instead of the front door. He knocks a few times on the glass, smiling up at her when she lifts it up and smirks at him.

"Everything go okay?" she asks softly, and he nods. "C'mon. Cold's getting in."

Deacon climbs in and takes his boots off. There is only one candle flickering in the corner, casting gentle shadows on Charmer's face, the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her waist as she slides back into the bed. She rolls to face him, smiling and watching him undress.

"S'nice to be back," Deacon says to his laces, smoothing out the dumb grin on his face and pulling his shirt over his head. He'll be cold at first, but he wants to feel her skin against his. When he slides in after her, her hands pull him closer immediately, running up and down his side, his cheek, his shoulder. "I'm fine."

"Okay, okay." She nuzzles his cheek a moment before turning over, pressing her warm back to his chest and burrowing a little deeper in the mess of blankets until she's comfortable. "Mmm."

**

**

In the morning, the three of them talk and joke over breakfast. MacCready's on patrol, so Marcy is sitting with Duncan in her lap, helping him focus on getting his food into his mouth instead of on his face or shirt.

"She's been helping out with him more," Charmer tells Deacon in a soft voice, smiling. "I think it's good for her."

Deacon shrugs:  _whatever works_. Charmer nods in agreement.

Off to the side, Hancock is watching Marcy and Duncan, smiling a little. Deacon catches himself enjoying Hancock's contented expression, and goes back to his radscorpion eggs.

**

**

That night, the knock on the door is unwelcome at best. Deacon's best guess is that he's been asleep for about ten minutes, and Charmer's nudging him gently to go answer it.

"It's past midnight," Deacon grouses, but Charmer just makes a blind grab for his hand, pulling it to her lips for a brief kiss before nudging him some more. "Okay, okay."

Another knock, very quiet. Deacon gets to his feet, making sure his long johns aren't hanging too low on his hips before easing the door open.

It's Hancock, looking very confused.

"What," Deacon murmurs tiredly. He's getting a flashback to several mornings ago, when Hancock had brought the guns over.

"I'm," Hancock says, and then seems to forget the rest. "I'm sorry. She said. She told me to..."

Deacon frowns at Hancock, then turns to frown at the shadow in the bed. Back to Hancock. Thinks about Charmer and what this means.

She's letting him decide.

"She did this on purpose," Deacon informs Hancock decisively.

Hancock doesn't seem to know what to do with this information. "Oh."

"Yeah." Deacon looks back to Charmer, fixes her with a look even though she definitely can't see. "I sleep closest to the window."

"...you what?"

Deacon sighs and steps back from the door, letting Hancock walk in before shutting it against the wind. He points to the window on the far side of the room. "I sleep on the window side," he repeats. "So this is your side." He points to the side nearest the door before walking back to the edge of the mattress, folding himself so he only has to raise the blankets the tiniest bit to get back into the pocket of warmth.

"Mmm," Charmer says sleepily, appreciative.

"Schemer," Deacon admonishes under his breath. He squirms until he's comfortable on his back and his hip is just brushing up against hers.

It takes a moment, but finally Deacon can hear the sounds of Hancock undressing, and when he finally lifts the blankets on the other side of the bed, Charmer makes another contented sound. The bed dips slightly and after a few seconds of rustling, the room's silent again.

 _The bed will definitely be warmer with three_ , Deacon thinks sleepily. He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to the precious few still reading and commenting.
> 
> I checked the Deacon/Hancock tag again this week and... it's still just this fic 8C This isn't a ship so much as a rowboat, huh? Oh well.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thanks to a comment on the last chapter I realized that the synth I was referring to had a designation and so I didn't need to make one up... oops. So I've done some find-replace to change his name to M7-97 in the last chapter.

It becomes part of the routine. Deacon lopes through his last patrol before nightfall, lets himself in to Charmer's house, and strips for bed. Sometimes Hancock is already there, curled up on the right side of the bed and head tilted toward Charmer's face. Sometimes Deacon gets there first, kissing her briefly before sliding under the blankets and allowing Charmer to tuck him in 'just so'. She smiles happily and gets the hem of the biggest sheet right where she wants it, over his collarbones, as he tells her about his day, about Duncan running through the rows of corn, about Strong coming up from Red Rocket for supplies and nodding off by the lunch campfire, Dogmeat in his lap.

Sometimes the three of them talk, and it's strangely intimate - the acknowledgement that the three of them are in bed together, close. Hancock's voice is raspy and soft. Deacon imagines himself crawling over Charmer to straddle the other man, to map him out in the safety of the dark. He thinks Hancock would let him. He thinks Charmer would like it.

**

At the campfire dinner the next night, Deacon lets his knee skim Hancock's thigh as he turns in his seat to pass out bowls. Hancock shivers but doesn't move away, head down. Deacon starts a mental list of all such reactions.

**

Deacon visits Starlight Drive-In.

"Open sesame," he shouts at the sliding door. It creaks open much slower now that Strong's back at Red Rocket, and Deacon's thankful he doesn't have to wait for the thing to slide all the way open to get inside.

There's the sound of boots on a ladder, and to his surprise, a familiar face pops up from the top of the wall. "Hey, stranger." Glory smiles down at him.

"I didn't expect to see you," Deacon admits, craning his head up. "There some violence that needs doing around here or something?"

"Nah. Hey, Betty, grab Terrance and - yeah, thanks." Glory disappears as the door stops, and as soon as Deacon's inside it begins to shut behind him. Glory's by his side, clapping him hard on the shoulder. "You look good. Been sleeping for once?"

"The sunbathing opportunities on the Sanctuary roofs are _unmatched_ ," Deacon confides. As he looks around, he can see that they've been building on Strong's work - most of the planters are filled with young crops, and there is a lone female Brahmin in the pen, slowly chewing on some grass. "How're you feeling?"

Glory shoots him a confused look before remembering. "You haven't seen me since the Brotherhood got into HQ, have you?"

"I've only been back to base twice or so since then." He makes a show of circling her, dodging a synth carrying a basket of tatos so he can complete his circuit. "You definitely look less singed."

"I still think I should've died," Glory confides, voice a little low. "That stimpak your buddy hit me with didn't feel like anything I'd ever had."

He lifts his eyebrows. "Glad she was there, then. She can find a vein faster than just about anybody." Deacon looks around. "Any other family milling around?"

"Just me. K6 said you asked us to put her here, and I realized it was finally time to check out Jane's pet project... not a bad idea, so long as the defenses stay solid." She's eyeing the walls critically.

"Sanctuary's not far if they need backup. Plus, even closer? Huge angry green fella. Who would _hate_ anybody damaging his first construction project."

Glory's eyebrows snap up. "That tame super mutant really _did_ build this place? Drums wasn't kidding?"

"Would I lie to you?" Deacon beams winningly.

"I almost sort of missed you." Glory is rolling her eyes. "Hey, I offered to do a hand-to-hand lesson while I was here. You can stick around and watch, if you want. I won't even make you the training dummy."

"I'll be the watching dummy."

**

Deacon has learned several things about Hancock that he never expected to know:

Hancock is an almost permanent little spoon. Deacon's and Charmer's positions have always changed and shifted, often mid-nap, but Hancock is always perfectly happy to be gathered up and pulled tightly to Charmer's chest, head under her chin and wiry frame tucked in tightly under the sheets. If and when Charmer turns to lie on her back or reach out for Deacon on the other side, Hancock stays where he is, sometimes shifting back just enough to press his back into the warmth of Charmer's skin.

Hancock is fine with getting told to get things like more blankets or cups of water. 'Getting told to' might be overly generous. Usually Charmer will nuzzle into Deacon's shoulder and ask for something, and Deacon will reach over her and nudge Hancock's shoulder to tell him he should get it. Hancock gets the thank-you kiss on the cheek when he comes back, but Deacon gets to stay in bed where it's warm, and keep his arm wrapped tightly around Charmer's waist. It's a suitable compromise.

Hancock has a low, rumbling sigh every morning when he wakes up. It's a content sound, made when the morning bell is rung and Charmer noses his cheek until he begins to move. Deacon wakes up from the bell alone, so as he sits up and begins to get dressed, hearing the little sounds on the other side of the bed is now part of the routine as he puts on his socks.

This is all the new norm, and it hasn't changed or progressed for over a week. There's a temporary stalemate where Deacon knows that Hancock is just as chicken-shit as he is to touch Charmer with someone else so close by. Charmer's too polite to point it out, and too patient to initiate something with either of them and risk making one of them uncomfortable.

**

One afternoon, Deacon goes back to his room and tries another thought experiment.

Hancock is next to him on the bed, leg drawn up, naked under the blanket. Deacon focuses on the deep grooves in the flesh, the scarring - doesn't really affect him one way or the other. When he imagines Hancock leaning in to kiss him, he shivers a little. When he imagines rolling on top of Hancock and _taking_ the kiss, what Hancock's surprise would sound like against his mouth, Deacon's heart rate spikes and he starts unbuttoning his pants.

Deacon would grind down against him, make him groan and squirm. Deacon knows what Hancock looks like when he's been pushed on his back. The raspy panting for breath is in his mental catalogue too, now, and Deacon starts pumping himself while imagining himself biting down on Hancock's shoulder, hard, until Hancock clings to him and asks him to do it again.

**

Deacon is cutting tatos at the campfire when he catches Hancock staring at his face. Deacon looks around to ensure they're alone before lifting an eyebrow. Are they going to talk? Are they going to talk  _here?_

"Matthew Hatfield," Hancock says instead.

Deacon blinks. "Bless you."

"I'm serious," Hancock says. "Either it wasn't you, or it _was_ , and you haven't been him for years. You really can't tell me?"

Matty was one of Deacon's covers, maybe seven years ago. He'd been slimmer then, with a different face, and had done a lot of trading with the drifters. "Dunno," Deacon says, in the way that means 'yes'.

Hancock smirks and whistles low. "Glad to know I'm not totally crazy."

"I don't know that this one instance of you being right disproves a common theory held by most of Goodneighbor, but I'm not gonna die on that hill." He shrugs mildly as he starts tossing the halved tatos into the pot.

"How'd you do the arm, though? I know doctors can do faces, but-" Hancock holds up his own forearm and traces across it, where Matty'd had a thick scar. Deacon considers it for a moment as he cleans his knife and puts it away.

"It wasn't fake," Deacon answers. "Put my arm up against a broken bottle coming at my head."

"Yeah, that's what it  _looked_ like." Deacon doesn't have time to be impressed that Hancock could off-handedly discern that from the wound from a bladed weapon, because Hancock is moving closer, lifting him by the elbow and looking at Deacon's forearm. "But if it was real, where the fuck is it now?"

Deacon smiles tightly, holding his arm up for a second before folding it back in. "Had to get a skin graft after I switched him out," he explains, only a little reluctantly. "That scar was huge. Got attention. No way I could keep it."

Hancock's eyes widen. "Musta hurt like a bitch." He's giving Deacon his space again, inspecting him from a respectable distance. "You gotta do that every time you take a hit?"

"One that shows, yeah." Deacon gestures to his neck. "This one was the worst though."

"What happened to-?" Hancock cuts himself off. He'd said it with a definite note of alarm, which Deacon pretends not to notice as he files away for later. Hancock cares about people too much, but. Still.

"Couple years back. Had to 'slit my throat' for a fake death, scarred worse than I thought it would."

"Why the fuck would-"

"Because the other six guys there were gonna kill me for real if they didn't think I was already dead. Not a lot of choices." Deacon purses his lips. "Probably the messiest fix I've got right now, but better to look a little older than have a really memorable horizontal line right under my face." Deacon waits for more questions, but none come. Somewhere, probably around the corner, Jeremy is waiting for this conversation to be over before coming over to help with the cooking. In another life, Jeremy could have been an excellent personal assistant. Or maybe a top-of-the-line fancy servant. "If I remember correctly, Matty sold you some food a few times."

Hancock smiles a little. "Sugar Bombs. Boxes were dented as fuck, but they still tasted fine."

Deacon grins back, looking back at the cooking pot before he gives himself away too much. As he starts getting the fire ready, Jeremy strolls in with a water pail.

**

**

The deforestation project north of Sanctuary is handled by whichever settlers are available and strong enough, and apparently Hancock doesn't have any chores assigned today. Most of the logs are getting carried back by three people each, but Hancock and a burly guy from Quincy are carrying the biggest one themselves, down the street and toward the wood pile on the edge of town.

Deacon looks up from his book; Hancock's shirt is tied around his waist, and he's been sweating. When MacCready gets up and offers to help, Hancock smiles warmly and shakes his head no.

"Nearly there," he rasps, and when he lowers the log down onto the pile with the rest, he makes sure to check over his shoulder that the other guy's ready to drop it.

The earth trembles a little, and Deacon notices too late that Hancock's caught his eye. "For a city type, you're taking to the farm life pretty well," Deacon remarks, covering his tracks.

Hancock's eyes track downward - self-conscious? - before he wanders over and looks down at the book cover. "I see you're working pretty hard yourself."

"I'm a model for morale," Deacon informs him airily, draping one leg dramatically over the other. "I'm paid to sit here and enhance the ambiance of my surroundings."

"I thought you were just lazing around," MacCready comments from across the street. "I never woulda guessed you were supposed to be cute."

"I'm cute as _fuck_ ," Deacon says calmly. He interrupts MacCready's incoming retort: "Duncan's down at the bridge with Marcy and Jun."

MacCready relaxes a little now, no longer incensed by the coarse language. "Tell Charmer if she's gonna hire eye candy to improve our moods, I've got a couple suggestions that rank just a little higher'n you."

"There's no accounting for taste," Deacon sighs woefully, and turns to Hancock. "Et tu, Brute?"

Hancock takes an immediate step back. "What?"

Deacon looks up at him distantly, focusing on the game enough that he can overlook the trim silhouette and the guileless expression he's really becoming overly fond of. "Are you going to join Mac's campaign to get me sacked? Another unsatisfied customer? Dogmeat, come over here and tell me I'm pretty." Deacon tilts his chin up as Dogmeat trots over, immediately pushing his face toward Deacon's and licking him. "That's right, Dogmeat. Your opinion's the only one that counts anyway."

**

Somewhere in the second week, Charmer and Hancock are facing each other, her arm slung over his ribs as her nails drift up and down his spine. She scratches lightly up his neck, a little harder against the base of his skull. Deacon listens to the sound of her nails, then to Hancock's quiet, reluctant moan.

"Yeah?" Charmer asks softly, and does something with her leg under the blankets that makes Hancock shift and emit a partially-stifled gasp.

Deacon can feel his pulse kicking up, his heart thumping against his rib cage as he visualizes what he can hear: Hancock's slow, desperate breaths, Charmer's encouraging noises, the rasp of skin brushing against skin.

From seeing them through the window, Deacon knows how Charmer touches Hancock, how she handles him, and now that he's only listening it's like finally getting the audio to the holovid. She's reaching between them, rasping skin-on-skin, and the way Hancock is fighting harder now to stay quiet means she's stroking him and not holding back; she's  _trying_ to get him riled up and noisy. The thought gets Deacon harder. The blankets rustle more and something nudges Deacon's leg: Charmer's foot. She's tucked it under his calf, like a tiny point of connection, a deliberate bridge.

Deacon blinks in the darkness, Finally, he swallows, reaching into his long johns. He's sticking to them already and when Charmer lets out a satisfied moan - god, Hancock's breaths are coming from lower, he's doing something with her breasts - Deacon squeezes himself much tighter than he means to and has to bite back his own responding sound.

When Charmer cries out, Deacon knows it's because Hancock's fingers are in her.

"Jane," Hancock breathes, like he's unable to stop himself.

After Charmer's and Hancock's breaths become more ragged, it becomes very easy for Deacon to hide his own sounds underneath theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to everyone commenting. This rowboat may be tiny but I have a cooler stashed under my seat, and I have juice boxes for everyone!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Row! Row!

The next morning is typical. The morning bell sounds, and Deacon stretches, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth under the covers before pushing himself up to sit at the edge of the bed. Hancock emits a low, pleased rumble as Charmer wakes him up.

As Deacon begins to reach for his socks, he realizes that his long johns are sticking to his stomach and inner thighs. He takes a breath, gets to his feet, and walks to the bathroom to change.

**

When he comes out dressed and freshly shaven, Hancock has already left and Charmer is putting her coat on.

"Sleep okay?" she asks, tilting her head a little. It's clear what she's really asking; he takes a moment to think about it.

"Not bad," he answers, in the way that means 'good'. She grins and watches him put his sunglasses on, crossing the room and draping her arms over his shoulders. "Hi."

"Hi." She kisses him briefly. "I like you."

"You could've said something earlier. We've been wasting all this time just being friends."

"You used to  _call_ us just 'friends'," she reminds him with a wicked grin. She squeezes him closer to her when he stays close enough to touch his nose to hers. "I think we might be something else at this point."

"I think _you're_ a master manipulator," Deacon teases, nosing her cheek to make sure she knows he doesn't mean it. "Wait. A... mistress manipulator? That sounds like you manipulate mistresses. Not quite what I was going for. We'll stick with the male/gender-neutral version."

"I wouldn't call it manipulation so much as... creating opportunities?" She tucks herself in closer, face against his neck. "If you don't like the opportunities, though, I don't have to keep creating them."

Deacon thinks back to the night he answered the door and found Hancock there. And then there was last night. He'd listened to Hancock's hiss as he came, to Charmer pressing her lips against his temple, to them going still together. Later, when Hancock got up to get them a washcloth, Deacon had taken the opportunity wipe his come against the side of the bed sheet before rolling over to go to sleep himself.

"Opportunities," Deacon echoes finally. "That lead to other opportunities."

"Optional opportunities."

"Optional opportunities leading to other optional- it _tickles_ when you laugh right there."

Charmer pulls away from the delicate skin of his neck and smiles at him. "I'm gonna go eat," she says. Her eyes are bright and her hand squeezes his shoulder briefly before she lets him go. He tamps down the urge to use that 'L' word he's got to stop thinking about and watches her slip out the door.

**

Deacon's working on the fence when Charmer comes by for an unexpected visit. He takes the water she's holding out, nodding appreciatively and sitting down with his back against the tree.

"You're very sweaty," Charmer says approvingly.

"I'm very manly," Deacon informs her, only a little out of breath. "Very physical. Lots of muscles."

Charmer grins and sits down next to him, pulling a heavy envelope out of her jacket pocket. "Letter from Spectacle Island," she says, and chooses a folded paper with Curie's handwriting on it. Deacon makes an interested noise, pointedly not making a point of her deliberately sharing this with him, and sips his water.

"Has she figured out how to turn salt into gold yet? That's what you sent her over there to do, right?"

She rolls her eyes and begins reading. "Morale high," she summarizes. "The yields are better than expected. ...two paragraphs describing the differences in flavor between ocean salt and table salt... okay..."

"If we turn Spectacle into a resort location, she could be the hotel chef. Those were a thing, right?"

"You and your investment schemes." She leans until her shoulder bumps his. "It's working great for the Brahmin jerky salting process, and she... likes studying the island flora, but is also excited to 'come home' and see her friends again." She smiles. "Sweet."

Deacon finishes his water and wipes his hand on his jeans before rubbing her knee. "Your plans are good plans. First: salt. Next: the Commonwealth."

"One thing at a time."

"If by one you mean eight. How's that mirelurk domestication thing going, anyway?"

She fixes him with an amused look. "As if you don't have anyone posted at the quarry."

"I don't," he says honestly.

"A trader that moves through it, then."

"I might," he hedges.

Charmer grins. "Nobody's gotten hurt yet. The yield is low but apparently now that the two subjects aren't separated anymore, they're a lot happier."

"Just two mirelurk ladies, hanging out in a guarded quarry, laying eggs." Deacon hmms. "Could make for an interesting radio show."

"What would that _sound_ like?"

"Ksshhh," Deacon says, putting two hooked fingers in front of his mouth to mimic their pincers. "Kshh ksssh? Ksssh."

"Ah. And then a laugh track."

"Yes, and then a laugh track." He blinks as she pulls out the next letter. "Huh."

The handwriting is unusually neat for the Commonwealth, but despite its prewar style, it's definitely not Charmer's. "Jane's Assistant,"  Charmer reads aloud, smiling.

Deacon plucks it neatly from her hand. "I'll take that, thank you."

"I was supposed to be paying you for all these services?"

"Don't worry, I've been keeping a tab." He unfolds the paper and begins reading. "Wow, this is formal. _To Jane's Assistant. I hope this letter finds you well._ Institute taught him handwriting  _and_ pre-war manners."

Charmer's smile is a little tight - understandable. "How is he?"

He takes a moment to read. "Good. He really likes Curie and he's been helping her put the boiler rigs together to-" He stops as footsteps approach. Hancock's holding a piece of paper too, mouth in a thin line. "Damn, the mailman must have a broken back after today."

Hancock gives a token smile at the joke, but something's definitely eating at him. He nods to Deacon before looking to Charmer. "Bad news from Goodneighbor."

She's sitting a little straighter against the tree now. "Fahrenheit okay?"

"Yeah." He shifts on his feet. "But the bad rain to the south? Some old roofs near the swamps caved in, and now she's handling almost thirty new people."

"And there's not enough resources," Charmer deduces. She glances to the junk house, then the main road. "Preston should be back tomorrow morning. We can go then."

Hancock looks surprised. "You don't have to - I mean, I was just gonna ask to borrow a brahmin and take a little of the emergency rations, if that was okay."

"That's what the rations are for," Charmer says firmly. "You're taking half."

"Also, you suck with brahmin." Deacon sees no reason not to point out the obvious if Charmer's already decided they're going. "If you went alone it would probably ditch you before Red Rocket."

Hancock looks like he's about to get annoyed, but then something changes on his face and he looks at Deacon with a slight grin. "That mean you're coming too?"

Deacon feels Charmer's shoulder brush against his, and shrugs. "I'm sure as shit not running things here if I don't have to. Besides, Whitechapel Charlie probably misses me."

Hancock's smile is a little bigger now. "Charlie never misses anyone. But I'd be happy for the help."

**

It's not every night that Deacon sits between Charmer's legs when they all eat at the campfire, but it's a solid Sometimes Thing. Every other time he's just beside her on the bench, not too close, but not very far.

That evening, when he's already on her left, Hancock wanders in late. Charmer doesn't look up from her meal as she spreads her knees apart, making room for him.

He only hesitates for a moment, head tilted, before grabbing a plate and then sitting where he's been told. The curious glances from the other settlers are exchanged with each other, then pointedly directed toward Deacon. Deacon makes a point of ignoring it in favor for tossing pieces of steak in the air, leaning back, and catching them in his mouth.

It only takes a few minutes before everyone decides they've seen weirder things and focus on their dinner.


	10. Chapter 10

Preston actually makes it back that evening, right before Sanctuary turns in for bed. Charmer still insists that she, Deacon, and Hancock should get a full night's rest before they head out.

Between the campfire and Charmer's house, Deacon takes a slight detour to slap Preston on the back.

"Good to see you too," Preston says with a little grin. He looks content.

"How's Diamond City?"

He rolls his eyes. "Crowded and noisy."

"Uh huh." Deacon cants his head, inspecting Preston's neck where it isn't covered up by the scarf. He's not sure he could spot a hickey with Preston's complexion in this dim light, but he doesn't actually _need_ to - Preston realizes what he's looking for and jumps back, slapping his palm guiltily over his throat. "No fun at all down there?"

Preston looks around surreptitiously and fixes Deacon with a desperate look.  _Please_ , he's saying. Deacon feels a rare stab of pity.

"Well, some people just can't handle city life." Deacon shrugs and turns on his heel, down the road. "Good you're back here, I guess."

Good for Preston.

**

Deacon gets under the blankets as Charmer finishes up her work at the desk. She's determining just how much they can get on a brahmin, versus what Hancock says they've got stored up at Goodneighbor already, and what that will leave in the Sanctuary stores. She's always scraped and hoarded for more than this little settlement needed, but it means in times like this, she can give pretty freely. And she always does. Deacon admires her silently from the bed.

Hancock comes in as the candlelight is beginning to flicker. He strips down and crawls in on his side, curling up with his back to Deacon to watch Charmer too.

When she finally gets out of her chair, Hancock shifts a little in preparation to let her scoot to the middle. She blows out the candle and settles between them without a word.

It's comfortable.

**

Goodneighbor's in decent spirits, but the sidewalks are full and most of the new faces look lost and a little bit frightened. Hancock makes an appearance on his balcony to tell people he's renting them rooms in the hotel, and to please have faith in Fahrenheit, who's been running the city better than he ever did, not that anyone's asked.

(Fahrenheit remains leaned against the brick wall by the door, arms crossed, clearly happier to let the figurehead status remain firmly in Hancock's court.)

The food and supplies are distributed outside The Third Rail by one of Deacon's more recent covers. It's been a long time since Charmer's had to pretend not to recognize or know him, but she impresses him at it, giving him an unfamiliar, calculating eye as he passes out blankets and talks shit with the 'other' people who grew up near Quincy.

They load up on ammunition while they're there. KL-E-0 greets them with the same sultry voice as ever, and Deacon opts to talk to Daisy first about a shipment of crystal for the new turrets for Greentop. By the time he swings back next door KL-E-0 is talking to Charmer in hushed, wry voices. When Charmer breaks away from the conversation, she has that smile that makes Deacon's spine tingle.

"Hancock and I are going to see a specialist vendor at the Memory Den," she announces, and judging by Hancock's expression as he gets pulled along, he didn't hear any of the conversation, either.

Deacon looks to KL-E-0, one eyebrow quirked.

"Invitation only, sweetness. Maybe if you've been good, your lady friend will pick something up for you."

He leans against the counter. "After all we've been through, we still have to talk in riddles?"

KL-E-0's chuckle echoes in her voice box. "I've been missing my hypocrite with the million dollar smile. How've you been, baby?"

**

Deacon drops by to see Amari, passing a few notes and receiving a few himself. He reads all the shorthand on both sides of each scrap of paper before tossing them in the ashtray. (Ticonderoga is stabilizing. Record packages being processed at once. More packages to Starlight soon. Deacon remembers when there was nothing but more fires to put out. One and then another and then another.)

Amari frowns over the last of the notes he handed her. "You're looking for Mel? The technologist? I thought it was determined he was not 'Railroad material', despite his hobbies."

"He's not for us. Charmer wants him."

"Ah. That makes sense." If that also means this request to track him down is a clear misuse of 'company resources', she doesn't point it out.

Deacon remembers something: "That kid wrote me a letter."

"Oh?" Amari says. She's pulling out a tin box, filing the notes away in them for later. "Did you learn something of importance from it?"

"Just that he's doing good." Deacon shrugs. "He's clear on who he is now."

"As I recall, you were not _in the loop_  on that issue."

Deacon shrugs his shoulders and pushes Amari's abandoned cigarette into the scraps of paper, watching the edges curl. "I'm so good at my job, my mistakes involve accidentally learning  _extra_ stuff."

"Mm-hmm." Amari pauses a while longer, closing the tin and stashing it away behind some stimpacks in a lower cabinet. "Perhaps you're _missing_ your job."

"I'm not retired yet." Deacon frowns.

"I'm not saying you are. Or that you should be." She tilts her head. "But you must admit that you built your system a little too well. You handle what little work must be done from a comfortable distance, while your moving parts do your legwork and act as your eyes."

Deacon can't help but feel a twang of worry at that. "You think we're getting too lax in this period of peace?"

"I think I'm surprised to see something other than death itself stop you from working too hard." She smiles. "Would you like to hear the latest joke circulating among our people?"

"Sure."

"Young Jeremy has not reported anything of note up in Sanctuary, but a trader mentioned some local gossip: that Vault 111's sole survivor had taken up a romantic partner. A bald gentleman." She carefully does not look at him as she crosses the room to take the ashtray, dumping the contents into the small bin by the door. "Tom suggested that it might be you, which apparently is the funniest thing anyone has heard in years."

Deacon doesn't respond. He's used to most of HQ thinking he's got the emotional capacity of a tapeworm - he's kind of cultivated that vibe - but something about Amari's tone suggests she doesn't really buy it. "If that's true, he's gotta be pretty lucky."

"Yes," Amari says in a deadpan. "And if he's smart, he'll invest in his good fortune."

He quirks an eyebrow. "You got stock tips now, doc?"

Amari continues as if he hadn't spoken: "If he's  _smart_."

"I'm not sure he's really known for his good judgement."

"Hopefully this man has someone in his life who's known him a long time... someone to remind him he hasn't had anything like a streak of luck in many, many years. And that he should make sure to invest in his new gains."

Deacon shifts on his feet, considering it. "The part-time work seems to be a good compromise for him. For now."

**

Whatever Charmer picked out at the Rex has brought Hancock's color up in his cheeks, and Deacon's guessing some kind of soft rope. Charmer's never tried to restrain Deacon with anything more than her own body, and he's perfectly fine with that, but he could see her tying Hancock up and enjoying that a lot.

(Deacon tries not to overthink how _he_ might enjoy Hancock tied up, too. Now's not the time.)

(Hancock's current shy expression, with his hat tipped lower in an attempt to hide it, isn't helping.)

Deacon elects to walk in the back, trying to concentrate on something else and catching Hancock's occasional glimpses over his shoulder. Maybe Hancock's thinking about something similar? Now that Deacon knows to look for signals, he can see something like interest blended with anticipation. Deacon's been working hard to keep those very same things off his face the last few days.

Soon? Probably soon. It's got to be the right time.

They walk northwest and talk about winter plans. Hancock wants Charmer to find someone to run Sanctuary over the snowing months so he can show her Goodneighbor around Christmas. Deacon can tell it's an angle to get her to take a brief vacation. They'd get snowed in to the State House together for a few days at the very least.

'They' includes Deacon, apparently.

"Preston could probably handle it. What do you think, Deacon?" She turns to him.

"Preston's well known for being able to tolerate Marcy without feeding her to the brahmin. A good candidate."

She laughs and elbows him. "I meant a long break in Goodneighbor soon. Would you like it?"

Deacon peeks through his sunglasses over at Hancock, who indeed seems to be waiting for an answer too, and not like his invitation to Charmer has accidentally been extended to someone extra. Hmm. "Can we make pillow forts while we're snowed in? Wear footie pajamas? Eat smores?"

"That's yes," Charmer translates to Hancock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to Sorrel, who single-handedly betas with incredible speed and even listens patiently when I ramble about DIY jerky.
> 
> Continued thanks also to the readers, whose love and commenting and bookmarking and fevered rowing keep this ship afloat.


	11. Chapter 11

The brahmin's not carrying anything on the way back, so the three of them take turns riding it. Hancock needs a little convincing, but Charmer gets him up eventually. He looks uncertain, brows together and looking very small.

"Were you bad with them before you were a ghoul?" Deacon asks, genuinely curious.

"Yeah." Hancock swallows and uses one hand for balance while the other one reaches out a bit to pet at its closest neck. "I like 'em just fine, but they never seem to like me."

Charmer pats the brahmin's side, resuming the slow pace back to Sanctuary. "Just takes practice. Horses were the same way."

Hancock grunts with interest. "What were they like?"

"Like... like a one-headed radstag, but no antlers, and-"

"I know what they _looked_ like. There's Giddyup Buttercups all over."

"Well, they definitely weren't yellow." Charmer laughs.

"Did you mean what did they act like?" Deacon prompts, and Hancock nods.

"Yeah, that."

Charmer nods and takes a moment to think. "I guess... pretty docile? But skittish. The ones I saw at circuses and things always had these big bulgey eyes, like they were looking for predators." She scratches the side of her face. "Definitely more like brahmin in that way, I guess. Didn't really seem to like people so much as put up with them."

Hancock's smiling now, relaxing on the brahmin as he looks down to Deacon. "You ever ask her about past stuff?"

"You know me," Deacon replies. "I'm not the curious type." He laughs as Charmer smacks him lightly on the hip.

"Did you go with your folks?" Hancock asks. "Circuses were usually a family thing, right?"

Charmer takes a breath and tilts her head. "I didn't live with my parents for very long, so, no." Something's bright and hard in Charmer's eyes and something in Deacon's mind flares up and urges him to do... something, to climb up onto the brahmin and cover Hancock's mouth to prevent him from asking more questions. "But yeah, usually families went. Or a guy might take his girl there for a date." She turns to Deacon; if he wasn't looking for it, he might miss the way her smile is forced. "Deacon, did you ever finalize those plans for the mirelurk rig?"

Deacon's only too happy to pick up the new topic of conversation. "Cait's our lion tamer, but with Deathclaws. MacCready's our Annie Oakley." He holds an imaginary rifle over his shoulder and mimes the kick as it fires. "I think I decided Curie should be the one to train Dogmeat to balance on balls..."

Hancock shakes his head. "There's none around here big enough."

"That's what Jane said! But I was thinking a basketball for the front paws, another for the back paws."

"Curie should sell the food," Hancock says.

A light goes on in Deacon's head. "Oh my god, you're _right_."

**

Back at Sanctuary, the three split up to put their gear away. In Deacon's room, he's switched out of his costume and has settled down to read a few chapters of noir-y goodness. He's a couple pages in to the new chapter when there's a knock at the door.

"Entrez vous," he calls. He hasn't been paying attention to the footsteps in the hallway; he smiles in surprise when the door opens and Charmer slips in. "Hey there."

"Hi," Charmer says. "Busy?"

"The answer to that is preeeetty much always 'no'." He gestures expansively with his free hand, fighting down a goofy smile. "Make yourself comfortable."

She begins giggling as she looks around, eyes lingering on the ceiling-high bookshelves that are mostly filled with junk. The armchair by the door takes some work to navigate around. "Is there room for me in here?"

Deacon watches as she locks the door and starts taking off her boots. "Having a lot of stuff means absorbing a lot of sound," he explains.

"Ah. You having a lot of secret meetings in here?"

"That's classified." He scoots to one side of the mattress on the floor, stretching an arm out, and makes a contented sound when she takes the hint and curls up next to him. She rests her head on his shoulder, peeking at the book he's holding up with his free hand. "You smell sweaty."

"I'm very manly," she says calmly. "Lots of muscles."

He laughs and kisses her forehead. "Is this a social call?"

She shifts against his side, getting comfortable. "Mmhmm. But if you wanted time to yourself, I can leave." It doesn't sound like she wants to move, so it's a good thing he doesn't want her to.

"No, no. I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't be opposed if I started feeling you up and maybe kissing you."

"You just said I was sweaty." She sounds like she's smiling, though.

"Maybe I like 'em sweaty." He dog-ears his page and sets the book down, wrapping himself around her and tipping her face up for a kiss. She's still warm from the hike, and her mouth tastes like... "You have a Nuka Cola before coming over?"

She licks her lips. "That a bad thing?"

"Not at all. I like 'em sweaty and soda-y." He grins and kisses her again, briefly, moving to her cheek, her jawline, her neck. She's not wearing her jacket, so it's easy to stroke down the line of her ribs, her waist, to curl his fingers around the hem of her shirt. "Mm."

Charmer makes an agreeing sound. "I think you said something about feeling me up, too?"

"Getting to that." He slips his hand under her shirt, squeezing her breast and feeling himself harden when she moans and cups him. "Yeah, definitely not finishing chapter six for at least a- ohhh." He bucks into her hand. "Yeah, like that."

She keeps stroking him through his jeans, breathing faster now and nuzzling against his throat. He drags the pad of his thumb against her nipple, pausing a little before doing it again, but soon she's reaching up and wrapping her fingers around his wrist. He stops - he's never moved too fast for her before, and he's not sure what he did wrong. When he pulls back to examine her face she's studying him intently.

"Everything okay, blueberry?"

"What would you say if I told you to fuck me?"

As if from very far away, he is aware that he's stopped breathing and has more or less frozen in place. He wills himself back into motion before she can misread him: "I would," he says, staring at her face and then down the line of her body, where she's already letting go of him. "I'd  _say_ I would, I mean. That." She's reaching down between their bodies to unbutton her pants. "I'd say yes. You mean right now, don't you. You, fuck, Charmer." He lowers his voice as he crawls on top of her, interrupting her progress to press his mouth to hers and kiss her over and over again. "Beryl." He's been saving the word. "Beryl."

She kisses back, holding him tight at the shoulders, and for all the emotion welling up in Deacon, there's still that heavy air of lust in the room that takes back over before very long. She's working his jeans off now, and when he rolls off of her, it's only long enough for her to strip naked from the waist down.

"Yeah?" he asks, just to be sure. She's already breathing hard -  _god, she wants this too_ \- and she nods, letting her legs fall open as his fingers press into her, testing, and he huffs out a surprised moan when he feels how wet she is already.  _Now_ , he thinks,  _she's ready and I can and-_ he takes a steadying breath and pulls his fingers out slowly, holding his erection and lining himself up to her, pressing his face into her neck when she gives an impatient whine in the back of her throat. "Beryl," he says again, because it's safer than what he wants to say. He pushes in and immediately grabs at the bed sheets under his hands, holding them in clenched fists, because it almost feels like too much. "Fuck, you're so tight, I-"

"I haven't done this in a couple centuries, I don't know what - ah - you'd expect..." Her voice is breathy, and he can feel the thrum of it where he's pressed against her neck, and he's not even all the way in yet. Centuries. Of course she hasn't. Deacon can feel her legs coming up, shaky, to wrap around his hips in a loose circle and when he finally seats himself it's like he can take full breaths again. He stays there, shaking, scared to pull back and look at her yet.

"Are you okay?" She sounds worried.

He huffs out a laugh. "You feel really fucking good," he admits.

She laughs back, arms coming up to drape over his shoulders. "Give me a second," she says, and he nods against her skin and waits for her.

Maybe it's the same for her. Maybe it's more about the walls than anything physical. Maybe after the pelt and his admission about his faces, this is her-

"Yeah," she says, and almost without thinking he rocks against her, his body shuddering at the pleasure of the tight heat, and more than her arms around him or her ankles at the small of his back, the two sharp points of her nipples through her shirt and his, he can feel her _relaxing_ , the grip on his cock easing just a little. He rocks again, still not pulling out so much as moving the two of them together, and she groans and tightens back around him. Her pleasure feels different from the initial tenseness; every part of her is pulling him closer now, and when he finally pulls back enough to really press back in, to start fucking her in earnest, her hands curl to nails scraping against his back and it's perfect.

"I don't know... how long," he manages, and she interrupts with an impatient noise that means  _I know_ and  _I don't care_ and  _don't stop_. He does as he's told, clutching at the blankets and pressing his mouth to her warm skin to hold back  _Beryl_ and  _I love you_ and  _Jacob_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, sorry this took a minute


	12. Chapter 12

The next day, Curie returns from Sanctuary Island. (She must not have been far behind her letter.) Duncan is studying her very carefully from behind his father, who is doing his best to explain toddlers to someone who has only ever known about them academically.

"He... he used to hide from Nick and Hancock, too, but he got over that in a week or two and now - Hancock, would you come over here? He used to hate Hancock, no offense, buddy."

"None taken." Hancock walks over to sit next to Duncan, cross-legged and relaxed. "You been good today? Find any more blocks?"

Duncan opens his mouth but doesn't actually say anything for a while. "One bock," he says finally.

MacCready leans a little closer to Curie to whisper: "Codsworth's been hidin' them all over the settlement, he gets a kick outta findin' them."

"He... enjoys the act of discovery," Curie ventures, not sounding entirely sure. She's leaning around MacCready to look at Duncan; she's very interested in him, if maybe a bit unsure exactly what he is. "And... he has limited speech, still, yes?"

"More a result of choice than ability," Deacon says.

"Yeah, he's not much of a talker, but that's okay." Hancock pulls a toy car from his sleeve (did he get that out of MacCready's coat?) and begins running it along the dirt, up the back of MacCready's boot and then down again. MacCready twists his head around and scowls in alarm - Hancock definitely stole that car.

**

When Charmer joins Deacon on his shift at the bridge that night, she brings a flask. Charmer is basically wonderful.

"You never take me out anymore," he complains softly, hiding his grin at her confused expression.

"Where do you want to go?" she asks. "Diamond City hasn't needed-"

"It's always the same Chinese restaurant," he interrupts, and there, now she's caught on. "A girl needs some variety in her life."

"Aw, babydoll." She makes as if to pass him the flask back, but lays that hand across his shoulders instead, getting closer. "You know I don't want you getting bored."

 _Noooot possible._ "You're not embarrassed of me, are you?"

Charmer laughs, low and husky. They never really play up the gender flip of this fantasy very much - Deacon really just alluded to being a girl for the extra layer of hilarity, and Charmer never questioned it. "Pretty thing like you? Never." She noses his ear and lets her breath wash over him, warm and tingle-inducing. "I'd show you off to all of Boston if I could."

**

Five minutes later, when Deacon's watch shift has ended, he's got Charmer spread out on the breakfast table, fucking her for the second time and taking it much more slowly. He's staring at Charmer's face, at the way her brows come together when she's bearing down.

"You gotta stop doing that," Deacon breathes.

Charmer's eyes widen in alarm. "What's wrong?"

"I'm trying to do the slow thing, here." He gestures between them. "The romantic slow thing where I don't pop in the first five minutes."

When she laughs, he can feel it in the shake of her thighs against his hips. "I'll ease off."

"See that you do. You're really... messing up my strategy here."

She 'mmm's vaguely, relaxing her pelvic muscles. Her eyes lid as she lays sprawled. With the flat surface underneath her instead of a soft bed, it's easier to see the definition of her arms, her abdomen, as she flexes in response to a good thrust. He tries to do it again, no result. Again. She curls a little this time.

"Like that?"

"Mmm. Definitely."

**

Later, on his own, Deacon imagines Charmer sprawled across that table, watching as he strips Hancock down in front of her. Hancock's not allowed to move, and so he shifts his weight from foot to foot, getting harder and harder until he's completely naked. As soon as Hancock's waited just long enough, and his black eyes are flush with arousal and the beginnings of insecurity, Deacon steps in and kisses him.

Things are starting to fit together.

**

**

Jeremy's left an empty Nuka Cola bottle in Deacon's room, so Deacon slips out the window and heads north to the meeting spot. Jeremy's in the clearing, bent over some sewing work that might be his spare jacket.

"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

Jeremy's used to him, so he doesn't even look up from his work. "Good trip?"

Deacon shrugs. "Helped some refugees, swapped some notes with Amari." There's a spot under a tree where Deacon usually gets comfy, but it's rained recently and the spot is a mushy puddle. He frowns at it. "They're already putting Ticonderoga back together. Crazy, huh?"

Tilting his head as if doing the math, Jeremy shrugs. "We've got a lot of resources to spare now."

"Fewer long-distance packages," Deacon agrees.

"Fewer enemies too." Jeremy ties off a knot and pulls out his boot knife to cut the thread, holding his jacket up at arm's length to check his work. "Are we still keeping everything need-to-know, though?"

Deacon crosses his arms. He can already see where this is likely to go. "Is that why you called me out here?"

Jeremy shrugs. "I know there's some overlapping interests with us and her. Hell, even with Hancock." He sheathes his knife and starts to pull his jacket on. "And things that aren't my business aren't my business."

Deacon thinks back to what Amari said - some random trader had pushed some rumors around, but nothing had come from Jeremy. "I appreciate that."

"Things that aren't their business aren't their business." But there's something else - Jeremy quirks his lips and looks at Deacon, examining. "At first I thought it was a play, but. You're really with her?"

The idea that he'd lead Charmer on in order to get her intel or her firepower is... as uncomfortable as it is unlikely. "I keep you informed on all work projects."

"And now Hanccock?" Jeremy leans forward. "You're going to bed with the two people who have the most territory, the most alliances, and it's just a coincidence?"

Deacon sighs and opens his hands. "How long have I been training you? Four years?"

"Almost."

"Do I ever use myself as a honeypot?"

"No, but you're not exactly predictable."

"I'm _very_ predictable. I'm one of the most predictable people I know." Deacon cuts Jeremy off from what is almost definitely a comment on how it's very easy to predict oneself. "There's no project. No angle. I appreciate the radio silence you've been keeping going - it saves me from some much more invasive and uncomfortable questions from our fearless leader. We clear?"

Jeremy rubs his jaw and leans back, looking toward the settlement. "So you really have feelings for them?"

He normally really likes this kid - mostly for his restraint. This is an irritating change from the norm. "Our personal lives aren't relevant."

"You never _have_ a personal life." Jeremy fixes him with a look. "You're lucky it's too late to suspect you've been replaced."

Deacon sighs and looks toward Sanctuary. "So we're good here?"

Jeremy shakes his head. "I Just got back from Starlight Drive. Listen. The synths don't talk much in front of us humans, but they do talk to each other."

"And you hear things?" Deacon would be proud of him if not for the feeling hanging in the air that something's up. That Jeremy knows Deacon won't like it.

"And I hear things," Jeremy confirms in a sigh. "Apparently when they were underground, 'Nora' asked the synths to keep secrets."

Deacon can reroute faster than breathing. "Yeah, I imagine things like 'I'm gonna get all of you guys out of here' and 'me and my friends have plans to blow this place to shit' were definitely said in confidence."

"I wouldn't have brought you here if it was old news. And see where this puts me? When she was just an ally, I'd just deliver the intel and let you-" He stops, barely holding back some annoyance at the sight of Deacon's hand held up to tell him to stop.

"You're asking me if I want to hear things about Charmer. Things that she deliberately hid from... who?"

Jeremy levels a look at him. "Everyone."

"Who's  _everyone?_ "

"Everyone topside." Jeremy's eyes are a little hard. "What do you know about the synth she sent to Spectacle Island?"

"Shaun?" Deacon catches something in Jeremy's face. "What?"

"Shaun," Jeremy echoes meaningfully, and looks disappointed when Deacon doesn't respond.

Deacon hates this. This is crossing some lines. He's having to tamp down the part of his own brain that's kept him alive, the one that connects dots and finds the picture. "I know what they made him believe," he says, because that should be enough for someone who knows what the kid was programmed to think, and meaningless for anyone else. But Jeremy's studying his face, recalibrating, and suddenly it's clear that whatever the synths know, whatever Jeremy knows, it's something bigger.

"You ever wonder why someone would make him? And do that?"

"If there's a reason beyond-" Deacon cuts himself off from saying  _hurting her_ , because he's not sure how much longer he can keep this conversation professional and he knows if he starts thinking about Beryl's expression when she thinks of that poor kid, he'll lose it. "If there's no threat from Shaun, or from anyone else, I'm not interested. Got it?"

Jeremy looks like he's about to say something, but it doesn't last long. Finally he gets up, pulling his jacket on and walking back toward the clearing.

**

Charmer turns to him when he slides into bed, fitting herself to him and sighing. "Everything good?" she asks quietly.

He pulls the blanket up and presses his nose into her hair, breathing her in. "Yes."


	13. Chapter 13

When the morning bell rings, Deacon gets up and starts to get dressed. Behind him, Hancock is murmuring something as Charmer wakes him up.

Deacon wonders what would happen if he didn't get dressed. If he climbed over Charmer instead, waking Hancock himself with those little touches to his hip, by nosing his neck, as Charmer always does.

It doesn't feel right yet. The invisible balance that's holding everything together - and keeping him from overthinking everything - feels too precarious. He wonders if his talk with Jeremy last night is holding him back now, making him more cautious.

Should he be? Are there things about him - about  _her_ \- that he's overlooked?

"Deacon?"

"Hm?" He looks over his shoulder, to where Charmer's watching him with a little concern.

"You looked frozen for a second there." Her brows are drawn together, just a little. He can see so many things on her face, and some of them he can't quite work out, but he knows malice. He knows Institute. She just... isn't it.

"Ever get lost in thought wondering what you're gonna wear today?" He shrugs when she laughs. "Just me, then. Fine. Stick with your intimidating duster and big boots."

"I will," she says with mock petulance.

"Hancock, continue the red pirate thing."

"If you say so," Hancock rumbles, and gets to his feet with a long stretch. The scarring up and down his torso shifts as he tilts from one side to the other, passing over lean muscle. Deacon catches himself watching, and Charmer sees it too. She gives him a calm, knowing look.  _When will you make the move?_

Deacon resumes getting dressed.

**

Deacon beats them both to breakfast, and they still haven't shown up when he finishes his plate. Maybe Charmer held Hancock back for a morning quickie. Well within their rights.

Duncan is still using that old revolver barrel as a children's toy; he rolls it along the ground as MacCready shows Marcy how to set up a sandbag and level a gun on it. Deacon's always seen Marcy with handguns, shaky even with those, but MacCready seems to be a decent coach when he doesn't have a stick up his ass. Deciding to help, he keeps Duncan distracted by picking up a small stick and drawing a path in the dirt for Duncan to push the barrel along.

"Lef'," Duncan says, stopping at one seemingly random point on the line, and Deacon shrugs amiably and draws an alternate path. It turns into a shortcut, meeting back up with the curlicues he made further on. Duncan resumes his work.

**

Jeremy works the fields and doesn't leave any more messages or signs. Deacon doesn't know why he would; Jeremy's always taken clear direction well and even their most recent conversation isn't a deviation from that as much as... something new.

Deacon pushes it from his mind. Strong is trudging up the bridge and the settlers are looking to Deacon hopefully, none of them wanting to be the one to greet or receive the super mutant.

"Strong!" Deacon waves exaggeratedly, as if he were much further away. "My man!"

Strong grunts acknowledgement but passes him by, long strides taking him toward Charmer's house. Deacon falls in line and works to catch up.

"Boss is busy right now, actually. Can I help? How's Starlight?"

Strong stops and tilts his head in a somewhat human gesture. Deacon wonders if Strong's been getting more 'person-like' or if Deacon's just getting better at reading him. "Underground humans bad at staying alive. Not know how to hunt, to fight, nothing."

"But they're learning, right?"

"Yes. Learning." A beat. "Scared of Strong."

Shocking. "I'm sorry, buddy."

"Strong not _hurt_ underground humans," Strong clarifies.

"Course not."

"Strong not threaten them either. Strong just come to check on their walls." Strong stops talking there, and it occurs to Deacon that this might be his way of... asking a question?

"That could change. They're not from topside, but they still know you super mutants have a pretty tough rep."

"Underground humans  _made_  super mutants."

"Trust me, I know. I, of all people. Definitely know that." Deacon claps him on his enormous bicep. "But you know the synths didn't have a choice in that, right? You haven't been glaring at them like they're resp-"

"Strong  _very nice_ to underground humans." The interruption is something of a roar. Several settlers freeze in place a moment, making sure the outburst is over before very cautiously resuming their tasks. "Strong think... Institute make synths and supermutants. Both treated like tools."

Deacon has to put a lot of effort into not looking surprised at that observation. "You're very right," he says instead.

"Synths think supermutants still tools. But. Even other supermutants, who raid and kill... not tools."

 _But they sent you up here because they knew you'd destroy everything good in your path. _Probably best not to say that. "And you're definitely not anybody's lackey."

"What lackey?"

"Someone who does what other people want him to."

Strong nods solemnly. "Not lackey."

"I'm sure they'll get used to you. Just give 'em a little time. They're still getting used to sunlight."

Strong grunts. As he walks away, toward the coolers where he'll probably eat more radroach than a human could eat in three days, Deacon wonders what the hell goes on in that guy's head.

**

When Hancock shows up a little before lunch, he's brewing up stimpacks at the workbench and sweating. The sun's coming down hot, and most people have stripped down to his shirtsleeves - Deacon makes a mental note at how MacCready's more flushed than usual, pretending to clean his guns while Curie helps Duncan collect pebbles - but Hancock. Hancock's still wearing that damn red coat, eyes fixed on his work like he's got a deadline.

Maybe he does. Deacon walks to where the jobs list is usually posted, but there's just a bare nail. Marcy notices him looking.

"I've got it," she says curtly, and puts down the pail of water to go to the rec room. When she comes out, she's got a new sheet of paper, her meticulous handwriting almost filling the sheet completely. She hangs it up. "Jane let me redo it so MacCready's schedule is staggered with mine and Jun's."

"For easier babysitting duty?" Deacon guesses.

Marcy smooths the paper out under the protective wooden lip that's nailed just above it, then looks over to where Duncan's stacking the pebbles in several distinct piles. Her expression is soft. "Yeah."

"Makes sense." Deacon scans the rest of the paper and frowns. "What the hell are _companions?_ "

"They're right there," Marcy snaps, pointing to the bottom third of the sheet. "You, MacCready, Curie, all the rest of you."

"But what...?" It sounds like a euphemism for call girls.

Marcy starts talking very fast, very clipped, as if Deacon has resumed an argument that was only ever on pause. "Well there's no good word for you guys, you know, your  _group_  of, of miscellaneous people that go and do extra work for Jane, that she takes with her sometimes, you know. Ever since it was just us, you know, Preston and everybody else? Preston never had enough chores as everyone else because he had to disappear with Jane so often to do god-knows-what, and that's  _fine_ , okay? Nobody's trying to rework the jobs chart. But for all you types that go and shoot up kidnapper hideouts, or, or build settlements with their bare hands..." She trails off as she stares at Strong, who has opted to take a nap under a tree near the coolers. "The best word we could come up with you was to group you together, by, you know, how she takes you with her sometimes. For outside jobs."

"I still think it makes us sound like fancy... h-words," MacCready says from across the road.

"The word you're thinking of starts with a "w", and no it doesn't," Marcy calls back.

"I meant the one that rhymes with  _lookers_."

Deacon takes the opportunity to prod Hancock a little. "Hancock, you got an opinion on this?"

Hancock sets the injector down, but doesn't turn around. "I guess I don't care," he confesses. He sounds like he's masking a bit of strain. Nobody else notices.

"Well until somebody comes up with a better word for the second category, we're leaving it. I'm not writing that list out again unless there's a meaningful change."

"You can 'meaningfully change' it to...  _people_. How about  _people_." MacCready's put the rifle stock down to put both hands, palms up, in the air.

"That would include  _everyone in the settlement_ ," Marcy points out. "Which would _defeat the purpose of the second grouping._ " 

To the right, Hancock's hands are gripping the edge of the workbench tightly. Something's definitely off.

"Glad I could spark such an invigorating discussion," Deacon singsongs, and lets himself disappear into the background as Marcy and MacCready begin to get into it again. They don't notice where he's going, and neither does Curie, who is very carefully laying thin twigs to connect the peaks of each grouping of pebbles as Duncan looks on.

Deacon steps back until he's almost shoulder to shoulder with Hancock. "Hey," he says quietly.

Hancock makes a surprised sound. "What's up?"

"Can we talk behind Jane's house? I'll go first." Deacon doesn't wait for a response, taking his hat off and wiping the imaginary sweat from his brow as he crosses the street. Behind him, he can hear MacCready trying to argue and allude to whores without cursing. Curie, unbothered, is explaining something about tree growth to Duncan, who probably can't understand any of it. Deacon lopes around the junk house, to the treeline, disappearing for a few moments before sliding back in to the enclosed yard behind Charmer's house.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS, I finally admitted to myself that I'm not going to fill out & finish this story, so I want you guys to be able to enjoy what *is* written - I will start arranging the orphaned scenes and pushing them out for you to read if you're interested. I hope that's better than nothing? :S This cliffhanger in particular was pretty unfair, and I'm saying that as the writer...
> 
> Missing pieces noted in %%%% blocks.

When Hancock finally shows up, he clicks the gate shut behind him and practically throws himself back against the tree, as if he's desperate for support. There's a rusted outdoor table and chair set not two steps away from him, but apparently that's no good. Deacon does his best assessment of the ghoul - sweating, eyes shut, physically ramped up and tired but he was fine this morning. Deacon steps in closer.

"You look like shit," Deacon observes in his most lighthearted voice.

When Hancock opens his eyes, he's got an irritated expression ready, but it withers somewhat when he sees how close Deacon is. He gets edgy instead. "You pulled me from the workbench to tell me _that?_ "

Deacon pulled him from the workbench for... for what? For fact-finding, really, and possibly to pull an ally away from what might become an embarrassing situation for him. "Just trying to help, pal." His tone is low, trying to get Hancock to follow suit so they can really talk privately back here, and he's just a step away from the other man. When Hancock's jaw clenches at the sound of Deacon's voice, _that's_ the final tell. There's no way Hancock isn't interested in him.

"Did Jane ever tell you what she bought in Goodneighbor?"

Deacon blinks and changes gears, straightening a fraction. He hadn't realized he was leaning toward Hancock so much. "When we were last there?" He hates saying he doesn't know something: "Wasn't it something for you?"

Hancock puffs out a desperate breath. "Oh, it's for me, all right." He takes off his hat, wiping his brow and looking both ways before resuming very, very hesitant eye contact. "They were selling these rubber... silicone... I don't know,  _plugs_."

Several things click into place all at once.

Hancock shifts nervously.

"You're wearing it right now," Deacon says.

"I may have, um." Hancock grimaces. "Made a bet with her that I'm, um, definitely gonna lose, it's looking like."

There's a game element to this? Something about that makes the heat rise in Deacon; he grabs Hancock by the shoulder, steering him away from the tree and putting his back up against the back of the house instead. It's partially to hide them better, but if Deacon's being honest with himself - and he isn't - he does it to get the contact, to see Hancock's stumbling movements now that he knows what's got the ghoul so tripped up. Deacon's read about plugs, has heard about every homemade solution people have come up with in the Commonwealth for penetrative toys, but looking at Hancock now and know that's  _in_ him is- "Tell me the game."

Hancock's skin is several shades darker. He's  _blushing_. "What?"

"I can't help you win if I don't know the rules. What's the game?"

Seconds pass. Hancock's eyes track over Deacon's face, arousal and desperation finally overwhelming the anxiety. "I can't touch it," he rasps. "I can't... touch myself. I can't rut against anything. I've gotta get through the whole day with it in me."

Deacon schools his face into something like passing interest. "Can you come?"

Hancock's eyes flutter shut at the word, and he hisses through his teeth. "She d-didn't say I couldn't."

Still holding Hancock's shoulder through his jacket, Deacon starts doing the math. "Huh. That's all?"

Looking away, Hancock shifts. His breathing's gotten more labored. "I can take it out if I get off without breaking any of the rules."

A thought comes to Deacon: "Do you want to?"

Hancock turns his head back to stare at him. " _Yes_ ," he whispers emphatically. "I mean, it was good at first, the tease, but I'm ... it's been like an hour, feels like a day, I dunno, I'm losin' my fuckin'  _mind_ I'm so ha-" And something about that admission seems like it's crossing a line, like it's oversharing, something about admitting to someone a breath away from you how aroused you are is apparently just a bit too much, and Deacon's reaching up with his free hand before he can stop himself, so he completes the motion. His thumb brushes against Hancock's jawline, a soothing gesture, making him shiver.

This whole thing is a present from Charmer. An  _opportunity._ "I can help you," Deacon offers, easing into a relaxed smile.

The ghoul's eyes widen. "Are you..?"

" _You_ can't touch it.  _You_ have the rules." Deacon closes the space between them, leaving just enough room for a changed mind or a hesitation, biting back the soft inhalation his lungs are desperate to take. If he can't play it cool through this, he's almost definitely going to chicken out. Hancock, meanwhile, is looking wound tight enough to snap. "But  _I_  can touch whatever I want." Deacon shrugs. "I mean, with your permission, obviously."

And hearing that, Deacon has to wait for whatever's next. He watches as Hancock goes perfectly still, studying him, finally taking an unsteady breath before replying with his gaze downward: "You can."

Which is good news, because Deacon feels like he was starting to lose his mind playing it cool and keeping his hands more or less to himself. It's strangely easy to close the space between them, to get to where he can feel the brush of Hancock's chest when it expands with every breath. It's easy to get even further into that personal space and slip his hand underneath that ratty red coat, palm resting briefly on Hancock's waist.

For a brief and slightly ridiculous moment, Deacon flashes back to Charmer's early touches. When she'd take all the time in the world with her hand resting on his shoulder, or stroking up and down an imaginary line on his neck, showing him how to trust her. He's pulled back to the present when a hot, stuttering breath washes over his left ear and he loses himself for a moment, tilting his head to nose along Hancock's jawline in a soothing little gesture he's received before. He didn't mean to, but its reaction is unbelievably satisfying; Hancock shivers a little and seems to melt into him, and Deacon can feel the rigid muscles under his hand loosen somewhat.

%%%

%%%

Deacon learns more things.

Hancock responds very, very well to being bitten. Deacon's best guess is that it's a combination of existing preferences and the scar-like consistency of his skin dulling a lot of the softer touches. Charmer sinks her teeth in and the ghoul goes limp like a rag doll, trembling, making a soft whining sound when she lets him go.

Hancock isn't shy, but he also doesn't have much of anything to be ashamed of. Begging for someone like Charmer means you got the opportunity to get into bed with her, which, definitely a bragging point if anything. He strips down without hesitation. He doesn't seem to mind having an audience. And Deacon hasn't exactly done a direct comparison of the two of them, but... it's possible Hancock is a little bigger than he is, but it's also very possible that Hancock's small frame just makes him look more impressive where it counts. It's not that important anyway.

Hancock really, really enjoys making Charmer happy. She strokes his shoulders and tells him how good he was, how it was exactly what she wanted, and he just beams up at her, dark eyes warm somehow as he touches her back, soft, palms on her hips and waist and anything else he can reach. Seeing his face when he pleases her is part of what helps Deacon decide he's fine with the arrangement. That Hancock's not an intrusion. Rather, an acceptable addition. Someone to take Charmer's apparent love of leaving sharp marks up and down the lines of shoulders, rougher than Deacon can handle, more than he can easily cover with wasteland makeup. Charmer nuzzles Deacon instead, nipping gently, never making him more than pink.

%%%

%%%

Charmer likes holding Hancock down, and Hancock apparently likes it too. He struggles hard but he knows she's not letting him go, and seems to enjoy the inevitable defeat of it. There's some word or another he could say to make her back off if he really wanted, but Deacon never hears him say it. Charmer sits on top of him with his wrists pinned at his sides, swaying her hips back and forth in a slow tease against him, and he whimpers and shifts and tries to plant his feet so he can get some purchase and get free. (Or thrust up into her.)

He can't. She leans down to kiss the spot underneath the hinge of his jaw and suck it gently, then roughly, as she lowers down in one smooth motion. He shudders.

Deacon considers offering to hold him down sometime, so Charmer's hands would be free to roam wherever they liked. Maybe it'd be too much. He shelves the idea for later.


	15. Chapter 15

Nobody thinks too much about the rad levels Hancock took at the recent skirmish at the Children of Atom site until the next day, when he's tired and irritable and doesn't want to go outside.

"He's never late to take his turn on patrol," Jun says to Deacon, expression tight. "So I walked an extra round and then went to his room, and he's... can ghouls get sick?"

Deacon shrugs uncertainly and looks out the window. "Anybody take his shift yet?"

"Jeremy, the farmer kid." Jun's clearly not worried about that part. "But, um. Maybe someone should go look at Hancock. I mean, I  _looked_  at him, but. I don't know anything about..."

"I'll go check on him," Deacon promises.

**

Hancock has the flu. Or something like it. He's slept but he's exhausted, with a headache, and he's not interested in food. Charmer brings Med-X over and sits by Hancock's bed, frowning and holding his hand.

**

By the second day, Hancock's still tired, more short-tempered, and a little confused. Even in his state, Deacon thinks, Hancock knows what's happening to him. They both do. Charmer's new to the modern world, to what it's like to see a ghoul go feral, but he and Hancock both know.

**

Charmer leaves late that night to visit Virgil underneath the Ranger's Cabin, but she won't say why. Before she comes back, Hancock's taken a brahmin to Goodneighbor.

**

"Like an elephant," Curie says, when Charmer comes back and finds him gone. "They take themselves away from the pack when they know they do not have much time left."

Charmer looks more determined than Deacon's ever seen her. "We're not letting him do that."

"Charmer." He tries to keep the tightness out of his voice and fails. "If it's what he wants."

"No," Charmer says firmly.

"If he," Deacon swallows. "If he wants us to remember him as-"

"We're going, and I'm not discussing it."

**

The three of them go on foot.

**

Curie's gotten good enough at reading social cues to know not to talk while they travel. Charmer's leading. Deacon keeps his feet moving forward, feeling flat, empty, knowing some part of his head is keeping him numb because of how much he doesn't want to think about what's happening. What he's going to see.

Sticks crunch under his boots.

**

Fahrenheit has three guards on the door that don't budge until they see Charmer. They call to Fahr through the door, getting permission, and only then do they swing the door open and let the three of them inside.

There are ropes on the bed posts, but Hancock isn't in them. (Yet.) He's flat on his back, staring not at the ceiling but at the middle distance, half asleep. Fahrenheit's in the only chair, elbows propped on her knees. She doesn't look up.

"He doesn't want you here," she says flatly.

"I might have something," Charmer says, reaching into her bag. "Ever hear of a guy named Cabot?"

**

The injector is empty on the bedside table, and Hancock's hair is soft and blond. Curie says something about skin regeneration leading to nail and hair growth, and it makes sense, sort of. It's hard to think of what makes real  _sense_  right now. Hancock's hair is soft and blond, and his eyes are a deep blue, and his skin is coming back tanned and smooth as he shakes in Charmer's arms. She talks him through it, stroking his scalp, stroking her fingers through the blond curls and telling him he's going to be okay. The worst of the almost-seizures are over in just under a minute, but after that it's an hour of trembling, and Charmer holds Hancock through all of it.

(When she has to get up to talk to Fahrenheit, Deacon takes her place. He sits with Hancock and talks to him about what he looks like, about how Sanctuary's been worried about him. If he sounds choked up at any point, Curie's the decent sort of person who pretends not to notice.)

**

Hancock lasts the night. By the first light of dawn, he eats almost as fast as Charlie can cook for him. Curie pushes purified water on him as well, and Fahrenheit contributes by conveniently forgetting every request he makes for beer.

"You have a new body, monsieur. Treat it well, at least initially." Curie holds Hancock's left wrist delicately, measuring his pulse. When she finally lets him go and writes something in her notebook, he immediately resumes eating.

"Is your head clearer?" Charmer asks.

"Gettin' there," Hancock says around a mouthful. "Feel like... comin' off a bad high, but comin' down real fast." He chews, swallows, and looks up a moment to think about it. "Sunshine, what the hell'd you stick me with?"

"A hail mary, more or less." She circles his bed again, taking in the way the discoloration is fading from his skin. With every passing few minutes he looks more and more like a healthy human. His cheekbones are pronounced but no longer gaunt. His hair hangs past his ears in wide curls. His eyes, initially glassy and unfocused, are now sharp and alert. His nose looks out of place on his face. It's not incongruous with his features - it actually suits him well, Deacon thinks reluctantly - but it's like seeing someone with a tail or a third leg. It's weird that he has one at all. "It's pulled off a miracle before, but that situation was... completely different."

"You didn't know if it'd work on _me?"_ Hancock smiles shakily as she runs a clinical hand over his shoulder, mapping out the way the ridges are almost completely gone. He leans into it, hoping for more, but she's too focused.

"I certainly didn't know it would... de-ghoul you." Charmer frowns and turns to Curie. "Could it be permanent?"

"Perhaps?" Curie shrugs her shoulders and picks the injector up to inspect it. "Madame, I have only heard of this panacea a few moments ago. I do not know what its intended use is, let alone how it might affect a drug-induced ghoul undergoing feral transformation."

Charmer sighs and deflates a little. Deacon can tell that this is one of her rare moments of regretting just how closely she holds some things for to her chest.

Deacon interjects. "Maybe when we get back, we can have her meet up with the guy you've had working on replicating this thing? See if he can get her caught up."

Curie perks up immediately. "Another scientist?"

"We'll catch you up later," Charmer says. "For now, can you please keep an eye on his vitals? I have no idea what's going on."

"The patient is fine," Hancock murmurs. "Or, he will be, as long as someone brings him some more grub."

Charmer stares at his empty plate. "Already?"

**

Deacon has seen Hancock shirtless countless times before, but it's different now. His gnarled skin used to be a mix of browns and deep reds, almost disappearing in the low light of a bedroom. His skin is pink, now, smooth, lightly dusted with fine golden hairs on his forearms and down his chest.

(And down his stomach too, but Deacon's trying not to think about details like that.)

Hancock starts moving around his room with an amused sort of disbelief, leaning on furniture at first, then walking freely. Now that the risk of death is apparently over, he's happy to remark on what a mess he was when he got here, how he'd needed Fahrenheit's help up the stairs. Charmer trails him as he paces, waiting for him to stumble, but he's doing alright on his own. When Curie finally comes back with a mirror, she holds it up to his face and he stares at himself in disbelief, then comical amusement.

"I froze!" he shouts. "I fucking froze!"

Curie peers around the edge of the mirror at Hancock and then to Deacon. "I believe he means that he has not visibly aged since he transitioned to a ghoul?"

"A solid guess," Deacon says faintly. This is one of the weirdest things he's ever seen, and he watched the Prydwen go down. He nudges Hancock's calf with his foot. "Is it like you remember?"

"Handsomer," Hancock declares confidently, and strolls over to a very amused but very unconvinced Charmer. "Hey, sweetness, whaddaya think?"

"I was hoping to get my standard-issue Hancock back; I definitely wasn't anticipating this." Charmer grins tiredly, relieved but exhausted.

"You got the  _standard-_ standard issue," Hancock purrs to Charmer, and the rust and rumble of it is missing. His voice is smoother, now, whiskey and honey. Deacon's brain is fighting between the unfamiliarity of the man he's known for years and the lure of the new little details he keeps noticing - the compact muscle of his arms and back, the cupid's bow of his smiling mouth, the way his hair catches the light. Hancock is a stranger and yet not.

Maybe this is how people at HQ used to feel when he'd come in with a new face.

"Deacon?" Charmer says, and Deacon composes himself behind his glasses before looking over. "Curie's going to take a room at the Rex. You okay with staying here?"

"Sure, boss."

**

Charmer usually takes the middle of the bed, but when she coaxes Hancock to finally get under the covers, she comes in to his right. Deacon shrugs and takes his usual spot on the left, throwing an arm under his head and getting comfortable on his back.

"I should almost die more often," Hancock murmurs, scooting until the new swell of his backside is pressing against Deacon's hip, warm and soft under his pants. Deacon fights the urge to lift the covers and peek at the shape of it. "Jane. C'mere."

Charmer laughs and lets herself be tugged closer, then peppered with kisses down her neck. "Hancock," she admonishes gently. "I think you regrew _half your body_ this afternoon. Maybe slow it down."

"Maybe nothin'," Hancock insists, propped up on an elbow. "Everything feels so  _good_. I forgot what it's like to be this sensitive."

A shot of something like sympathy runs through Deacon, and he turns his head, watching the way Hancock's running his palm slowly, reverently, over Charmer's hip. The skin color, the hair, those things are new, but the way he touches Charmer is the same. He clearly can't get enough of it.

"Hancock," Charmer tries again. Deacon can tell she's being cautious despite her interest. On an upstroke of his hand, she captures his wrist and holds it between their chests.

"Please," Hancock tries, burrowing closer to her. Deacon loses his point of contact and rolls onto his side without thinking, hesitating just a moment before closing the space and pressing his body along the length of Hancock's.

"Maybe we can still call it bed rest if we keep him lying down," Deacon suggests. Hancock, surprised and pleased, arches back into him as he feels Deacon's fingertips slide up and down his hipbone.

"Not you too." Charmer's grinning, though, brushing her thumb against the new soft contours of Hancock's face and kissing his lips when he leans in.

The last time Deacon spent time with a man who wasn't a ghoul, he'd been in the Deathclaws. Anthony had been young and horny like him, happy to get off together and laugh it off later. There hadn't been anything this intimate - Hancock's already half naked, and makes a delighted sort of hum into Charmer's mouth. Deacon starts tugging Hancock's pants down by the waistband, getting them as far as his ankles, to let him kick them off under the sheets. Hancock rolls to face Deacon, putting a hand on his cheek and dragging him in for a long kiss before Deacon can react.

The style of the kiss is only a little familiar - they haven't actually kissed that often - but the lips are completely new. Deacon didn't realize just how attuned he was to being comfortable with Charmer and Hancock's bodies until now. Hancock, sensing his hesitation, starts to back up, hand retreating, but Deacon growls and pushes in, sliding his tongue along Hancock's lips and demanding to be let in. Hancock groans in response and lets his mouth fall open as Charmer slides in tighter behind him.

"Deacon," she says, "did you strip him while I was kissing him?"

Deacon pulls away for air. "Did you not want him naked? I figured you wanted him naked." On impulse, he squirms down and runs his tongue along Hancock's collarbone, the impossibly soft skin of his throat, drawing out a low moan.

"Fuck," Hancock mutters.

"Naked is fine," Charmer says magnanimously. "I guess I was distracted at the time." Deacon notices that her hand is drifting lazily over Hancock's abdomen, conveniently missing its mark over and over. (And, damn it, Deacon's told himself before that between the ghoul ridges and lack of up-close examination they could be roughly the same size, but now that he's seeing it up close, Deacon doesn't win. He'll have to remember to sulk about that later.)

Hancock is squirming and panting, arching, trying to get Charmer's hand to really touch him, and Deacon decides this is the way they'll play it. Charmer can tease that part of Hancock, and Deacon can tease everything else.

Hancock's nipples are peaked. They're dusky, smallish, and when Deacon noses down and swipes his tongue over one, Hancock bucks his hips and leaves a distinct sticky smear on Deacon's abdomen. "Excited?" Deacon asks, pretending to be mildly surprised.

"Fuck you," Hancock manages. The arm that isn't tucked under his head is slung across Deacon's shoulders, pulling him in tighter. Deacon laughs as he's crowded in.

"This isn't hourly, I'm not going anywhere." He shuts up whatever Hancock's response is by sealing his mouth over one pectoral and sucking lightly, wondering what this feels like on fresh new skin. If Hancock's reactions are anything to go by, it feels like... a lot.

"Best seat to the best show," Charmer remarks, making Deacon grin. He puts his palm flat against Hancock's chest, feeling the muscles strain and contract, no longer obscured under the thick scars. Hancock's starting to breathe faster. Deacon runs his nails down to the last rib and licks patterns into Hancock's chest, refusing to rush, letting the other man enjoy his new/old skin. Hancock's only response is to breathe still faster, hand light and hovering at the nape of Deacon's neck.

"Oh," Hancock says suddenly, when Deacon hasn't done anything in particular - lower down, Charmer's fingertips are brushing through the dark blond curls, over Hancock's erection, applying just the lightest pressure. "Oh."

"Used to be you wouldn't even feel this," Charmer remarks in his ear, and Deacon looks up to see Hancock's mouth open and eyes shut.

"S'good," Hancock mumbles. Deacon smiles and shifts up so he can cup Hancock's jaw and kiss him, lightly at first, then deeper to keep him quiet as Charmer starts to stroke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't do the Cabot sidequest in FO4, [this is what Charmer used on Hancock](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Mysterious_serum) (and, as she somewhat alludes to in this chapter, on Glory.)


	16. Chapter 16

 

They hit up Vault 81 on the way back, where Deacon and Hancock are both new faces. (As far as the vault knows, anyway.) Hancock is smiling and cordial, enjoying his new anonymity and the way the ladies blush and smile back at him when he waves.

"Makin' the most of that new look, huh?" Deacon smirks at him as they carry some generously-loaned mattresses to Charmer's room at the end of the hall.

Hancock doesn't look phased. "Pretty sure you wear those road leathers all the time because you know Jane likes how your ass looks in 'em," he shoots back.

They arrange one mattress by the door and the other in the corner. For appearances.

While Charmer's at the commissary, Deacon and Hancock opt for showers. The flimsy curtains wouldn't hide much if someone really wanted to peek, and their voices echo against the tile, so Deacon's confident that Hancock isn't helping himself to an eyeful.

What Hancock  _also_  isn't doing, unfortunately, is making any effort at all to be quiet about how good the hot water feels.

"Quit jacking off in there," Deacon jokes.

"You just mad 'cause you can't see the show? What, you don't know how to tug a curtain back?"

Yeah, Hancock is  _definitely_... cockier than usual. Deacon's pretty sure he's been doing a perfectly good job of not letting his gaze linger, but the reaction of nearly every non-Charmer blueberry so far has been a giggly, blushy mess. Hancock  _knows_ he looks good. Fuck.

Deacon's got to shut this down. Gruffly, like a man who doesn't like being messed with, he says, "Quit screwin' around. Boss wants us back in the room and resting up ASAP."

Hancock snorts like he doesn't feel particularly concerned, and to anyone listening in this will sound like a normal exchange between two hired hands. That's what matters most.

They get dressed facing opposite directions and are pulling on their shirts when a dweller wanders in to use a stall. The trip back to Charmer's room is a relaxed one, in character, all the way up until the pneumatic doors slide closed and Deacon's finished pulling the curtains across the window.

"Finally," Hancock says, voice rich with appreciation. He throws himself onto Charmer's bed and starts unlacing his boots again.

"We don't  _actually_ have orders to sleep," Deacon says mildly.

"And I don't have any plans to, either." Hancock looks up from his fingers unworking the knots to smile at Deacon, openly warm and wanting. Deacon lets his eyebrows rise a quarter of an inch.

%%

By the time Charmer comes back to the room, Deacon's on his hands and knees on the bed, getting eaten out for the first time and sweating bullets trying to stay quiet.

Charmer shuts the door, locks it, and settles herself in the chair in the corner to watch.

%%

%%

%%

Sanctuary's reaction is pretty much as expected - incredulity turning to relief. Duncan's the only one who doesn't give him a hug, and stares at people with silent judgement when they try to insist that he knows this blond man. Hancock laughs.

%%

Hancock's vocal chords aren't scarred anymore. His voice is familiar but different, clearer, and at the campfire he mentions that he used to sing. Curie eggs him on, and then Jun, and Preston, and soon Hancock is laughing and reciting what bars he can remember from old pub songs he learned as a teenager. It's a pleasant voice, imperfect but melodic. Charmer is smiling as she listens.  _Everyone_  is smiling. Some join in for the chorus.

Deacon's a little embarrassed to discover that he likes Hancock's voice too. Really, really likes it. Hancock smiles when he sings, bright and warm, his hair an orangey gold in the light of the fire. And Deacon likes that too.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept telling myself I'd flesh this out a little more first, but... I need to stop lying to myself. ._.; Enjoy?

"You should wear raider leathers more often," Deacon tells her.

Charmer smirks and tugs at his jacket, making a show of looking him over. "We definitely make bad look good." She checks both ways, eyes squinting at the fading sunlight, before kneeling down by the cellar door. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

She looks at him, unimpressed. "No you're not."

Deacon feels genuinely affronted; he's never been accused of not being ready to get into character. "What do you mean?"

"Get down here." Charmer watches him as he kneels down next to her, and he lets out a silent 'oof' as she grabs his shoulder without warning, pulling him on top of her and pressing her mouth to his. Deacon struggles to plant his hands on the ground and hold himself up as she grabs at his clothes, his jaw, his ass. He gives in and groans softly when she hooks a leg around his hips to pull him in. "Get your blood pumping a little bit, huh?"

"Is this your idea of method acting?" he gasps. Her nails are scraping shallow grooves into the side of his hip, more than enough to make him flinch and shiver.

"You want me to stop?"

"No." He squeezes her breast through her top and pins her against the closed doors of the cellars, grinding rhythmically against her. "Fuck. Charmer."

"Shh," she reminds him. He nods against her shoulder, panting as her nails trail up and down his spine, digging in intermittently. She kisses his cheek, jawline, the spot beneath his ear. When she starts leaving a love-bite there his hands clench convulsively.

"We gotta go now or I won't be able to let go of you," Deacon warns.

"Good. Perfect." Charmer releases him. Her smile is wicked as she watches him get up, dusting the worst of the grime off his pants and straightening his shirt. She rolls onto her side and pulls oh-so-gently at the first door, smiling in satisfaction as it opens without so much as a squeak. Deacon wonders how long she spent oiling those hinges to make sure they'd give her the silent entrance she wanted.

Charmer goes down the ladder first, and Deacon starts climbing down after her as soon as she's stepped away. He shuts the hatch after them, and when he starts to look around for something to bolt it shut with, he sees Charmer's already holding out a crowbar for him to take.

 _Thought of everything?_ he wants to ask her, but her eyes are already locked on the mattress in the corner.

 

 

 

 

 

"Where's the caps?" "He can't talk if you're crushing him into the mattress like that."

"He'd just lie anyway." Deacon snaps on the handcuffs, making sure they're only tight enough not to struggle out of, before flipping Hancock over to his back. "...oh, damn!"

"What?"

"Look at 'im!"

 

Charmer tames, Deacon watches, then takes over 

 

"Maybe we'll keep you." "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Go on, say it."

"Yeah," "Please. Please."

 

 

Hancock's eyes are glassy and unfocused, the almost imperceptible circle of his pupils still huge from arousal. Charmer's stroking his scalp, his neck, rubbing little circles against the hinge of his jaw as if she's helping him come down from a high.  _She is_ , Deacon realizes with unexpected certainty. Hancock's weak and a little disoriented, leaning into her body like a flower toward the sun and she's holding him, petting gently, murmuring in his ear that he did a good job.

"You were so good," she's saying. "Did you like it?"

Hancock makes a indistinct noise as he turns to look at Deacon. "You never..." He's frowning now. Deacon kneels down on the bed and arranges himself behind Hancock, mirroring Charmer's hands.

"This wasn't for me. Don't worry about that. And I had fun," he adds as an afterthought. "Did you? Are you back on Earth yet?"

Hancock smiles vaguely and tilts his head down to watch himself get caressed. It's possible he's loving this as much as what was going on five minutes ago. "Gettin' there," he admits a little shyly. "Are you... are you sure, though? I could-"

Charmer swats Hancock gently and brushes her lips against his cheek. "Relax."

"Mmmkay."

Deacon smiles over to Charmer and shares a look.  _Maybe you and I? Later?_ She smiles back, and Deacon exhales a little relief. He definitely wants to help Hancock recover from whatever this is, but he was also a hair's breadth from coming a second ago and he's trying not to grind against Hancock's thigh.

"Thank you," Hancock rumbles, just as Charmer shifts to sit up next to him. She keeps stroking her fingertips up and down his shoulder, along the ridge of his collarbone. "That was really..." He's not sure how to finish that sentence.

"It was," Deacon agrees. Charmer smiles at him.

 

 

**

When Deacon walks in on Hancock preparing to go to the Vault, he understands.

"You don't know what I mean yet, but, when you get there. Tell him I say hi."


End file.
